Amphitrite
by Sinister Papaya Fondue
Summary: A cavein on a beach along the coast of Greece reveals a perfectly preserved ancient school of magic. Hermione is asked by her University professor to assist in the excavation. Severus Snape is the last person she expects to see there...UPDATED 1.11.08!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Ok, all, this is an AU fic but it is AU only in the sense that it takes place in the distant aftermath of the war with Voldemort. Since it was started before book 6 or 7 came out, events do not synch up with canon. For this reason some characters are different. I've tried to make them believable and provide good explanations for the differences; so far no one has told me that I failed. So read away, give me some constructive reviews, and enjoy! (Also, this is a slightly revised version of the original – Amphitrite 2.0).

* * *

"Miss?"

No response.

"Miss! Could you please stop that?"

Hermione Granger snapped to attention, confusedly tearing her eyes from the blurred countryside outside the train window and refocusing them on the man that sat across from her in the compartment.

"Hmm?" she said airily.

"Your leg. You keep tapping your leg."

She looked down at her leg. Sure enough, it was bouncing slightly; her nervous energy was radiating out of her through the ball of her foot and her tensed calf muscle.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Didn't even know I was doing that," she apologized, flushing slightly. She got up and repositioned herself so that the offending limb was tucked underneath her.

"It's all right. I just…that bothers me," the man said, shrugging. "Are you nervous about something?"

Now there was a question. She was only going to one of the biggest excavations of magical artifacts to be discovered in the last decade. A massive repository of magical things – wands, cauldrons, enchanted objects – had been found beneath a beach on the coast of Greece after a cave-in. Thankfully there had been a few wizards on hand, including one quick-thinking Turkish wizard who obliviated the Muggle bystanders and cast some temporary repelling spells. It had given the proper authorities time to arrive, and the site was now secured. Experts from all over the world had poured in, and she'd been asked by one of her University professors (a specialist in ancient charms) to assist in the excavation – an internship of sorts. Not even the Imperius could have made her say no.

"I've just got a very good job opportunity, is all," she said, smiling. The man nodded, looking as though he understood.

"Good luck," he said, favoring her with a smile of his own.

"Thank you."

There was a lull in conversation for a while, but it was not entirely uncomfortable. Hermione returned her attention to the window for a few minutes, staring in unabashed awe at mile after mile of glittering coastline.

"Where are you from?"

"England," Hermione said, once again tearing herself away from the view.

"I thought so, from your accent," he said, nodding. "Do you think you'll be here long?"

"I hope so," she replied, her heart once again speeding up at the very thought of all the relics under the sand.

"Hey," he said, biting his lower lip slightly, "my name's Anatole. Perhaps some night I could take you to dinner…"

"Hermione," she filled in, feeling her cheeks heat up.

"Perhaps one night I could take you to dinner, Hermione?" he finished, not even stumbling over her name. She glanced at him; he was pleasing to the eye, as she had found most Greek men were. Tall, very tan, with dark, neatly trimmed hair, honey brown eyes, and a physique that hinted at a very healthy lifestyle. Of course she had to get settled in at the site first, but what harm would it be? She hadn't had a date in a while.

"Sure," she said, smiling warmly.

"Great!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together. "I'll show you what the Greeks are all about."

"I think I already know," she laughed. "I've seen that movie, after all."

"What movie?"

"The American one."

"Oh, Greek Wedding or whatever it was?"

"Yes, that's the one."

Anatole tipped his head back and laughed. "Well, not all of us roast lamb on a spit in our front yards. And we know what a bundt cake is. And I'd kill my sister if she ever made her bridesmaids wear a dress like that. I will admit that we like our ouzo, though."

"I don't believe I've ever had ouzo."

Anatole gave her a mock-horrified look. "We'll have to fix that, won't we?"

"I suppose so."

From there they fell into an easy conversation full of good-natured flirting. Eventually Anatole came over to sit next to her, and within a half an hour their legs were crossed towards each other, their knees bumping occasionally. Anatole was an entertaining storyteller, and she burst out giggling more than once when he related anecdotes about his siblings, complete with voices, hand gestures, and other hilarious impersonations. He seemed pleased that he could make her laugh and grew a bit bolder, touching her occasionally in innocuous places – her shoulder, her wrist, her knee. She found herself focusing on his lips as he spoke. There was definitely some chemistry here.

It was a four hour train ride, but the last two hours went by in a blur. As they neared the end of the journey, Anatole programmed his phone number into her cellular phone. She wrote hers on a scrap of paper, which he put in the back pocket of his jeans.

"You probably won't be able to reach me when I'm at work," she warned. "Cell phones don't work there. So I guess you'll have to wait for me to call you."

One of his eyebrows arched, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

"I see. Well, don't break my heart, Hermione."

"I won't. But it might take me a while to get settled in, so…"

"So don't expect a call for at least a week."

She nodded apologetically.

"I understand. You're a working girl," he said, winking.

They continued to banter until the train slowed and stopped. He helped her with her luggage and squeezed her shoulder slightly when he saw her off. She climbed into the taxi and waved at him as it pulled away. For a little while, she didn't think of anything. But about ten minutes into the ride, she found that she was lonely. Anatole's presence was…warming, to say the least.

Perhaps it would be less than a week before she made good use of her phone.

* * *

The sun was sinking low on the horizon when she finally arrived at the site. It was quiet and no one was about, at least no one she could see, but she knew it was the right place by the faint hum of magic that surrounded the tranquil beach. The enchantments and Muggle repelling spells were masterful. She, even as a witch, could not see where the cave-in was until she stepped inside the magical boundaries. As she did a hot tingle coursed through her body; the shielding spell was set to scan everyone that went through. She smiled at the fact that her presence was expected. She'd dreamed of a situation and an opportunity like this, and now here she was, right in the thick of it.

She glanced around, dropping her bags into the sand. She could see the edge of the large fissure a few hundred yards to her left. A twinkle told her that the sand along the edges had been melted into glass to stabilize it. She pulled her sweater on and rubbed her arms through the cotton. The breeze had picked up and the sun was an egg yolk on the horizon.

The ocean air smelled wonderful. Hermione had always regretted that she'd lived inland most of her life. She would have liked to spend her summers on the shores of southern France, like some of her rich classmates had. Better yet, she would have liked to grow up along a briny shoreline, getting seaweed in her bathing suit and going home crusted in dried salt with handfuls of sandblasted seashells.

She had seen those beaches on vacation with her parents. They were beautiful, but not like this. The sand was soft beneath her feet, almost velvety, and the sea so calm. This wasn't how she had imagined Greece would be. That wasn't to say it was a disappointment; far from it. It had an atmosphere that put her at ease.

She kicked off her sandals and began a sedate stroll down the coastline. Perhaps everyone was off eating dinner somewhere; it was about that time, her stomach dutifully reminded her with a growl. She would gladly have joined them if she only knew where to go. So she kept walking, stopping only when she made it to the gaping hole in the sand. She couldn't see much since the light was fading, but it excited her nonetheless. Had she been in a more adventurous mood, she would have gone down and poked around. But it was her first day and she had to make a good impression. Going down there uninvited and unsupervised was not the way to go.

She walked further still, wondering how large of an area the wizards and witches had marked off. She counted each step she took, watching as the moist sand squelched between her toes and glancing back at the solitary pair of tracks she left. Hermione looked up one hundred paces later and nearly jumped when she spotted another person down the beach. She hoped the person was still inside the boundaries of the site; that way, he or she could tell her where to find her Professor.

As she got closer it became clear that it was a man. He was sitting with his back to her, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt that was obviously unbuttoned since she could see the edges fluttering in the wind. His lower half was clad in black pants, either rolled up or cropped to mid-calf. Bare feet and just a hint of darkly tanned leg showed, and as she watched, he absently buried his toes in the sand. Her eyes drifted up to where dark hair spilled an inch or two over the shirt's collar. His hair seemed black, but when the light struck it, it turned out to be that shade of brown just before black. Half of it was tied back haphazardly with an elastic band, probably so it wouldn't get in his face as he worked intently.

A small smile made its way onto her face. Perhaps now she would meet a Greek wizard. There seemed to be no shortage of gorgeous men around here, Muggle and wizard alike. He did not notice her approach, so absorbed he was by his work. But he gave a slight start when she spoke.

"Excuse me, Sir, do you work on the site?" Hermione asked, speaking a bit slower in case English wasn't his first language.

"You needn't speak to me as if I'm a child," he replied. "This is an International Zone. Everyone understands everyone else, by virtue of the Babel spell."

Cold sentiment, but his voice was warm with amusement. She should have known that anyway.

"I was just trying to be courteous. I've just arrived, and no one is around but you. Where is everyone, and where should I put my bags?"

"I don't believe I've ever been asked to be a bellhop before," he said cheekily, still not even turning around to acknowledge her.

Hermione sighed. She had hoped she wouldn't be treated mockingly by the older excavators, but this man seemed determined to run her through the gauntlet.

"What have you got there, anyway?" she asked, stepping forward to look over his shoulder.

"You see, it's a…" he began, craning his neck up and around to look at her. Then he fell silent, his eyes widening.

Hermione had more or less the same reaction, except for the added bonus of a choked squeak that escaped from her gaping mouth. Oh Merlin…it couldn't be! But it was. As plain as day, it was.

She'd found a Professor all right. Just not the right one.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh…" was all she could manage after nearly a full minute of silent, stunned staring. He seemed to recover more fully, drawing his eyebrows together in a slight frown and propping himself up on his elbows.

"Miss Granger," he said with a slow nod. "I shouldn't be surprised to see you here."

She knew now why she hadn't recognized his voice; it was not icy and frosted with wintry sarcasm. She had scarcely heard him speak any other way back at Hogwarts. But now his voice was deep, mellow, and melodious, completely lacking the razor-sharp edge she'd thought was characteristic of it. He could lull a small child to sleep the way he spoke now. And had he just complimented her, however indirectly?

"Thank you, Sir," she managed, blinking a few times. This image of Snape sprawled on the sand before her completely contradicted the one that was planted in the back of her mind from her school days. A small exasperated sigh made his chest rise and fall abruptly.

"Honestly, you're what, twenty-four years of age now?"

"Twenty-three."

"Are you going to call me 'Sir' or 'Professor' or 'Greasy git' for the rest of your life?"

"I didn't think we'd ever cross paths again, to be honest."

"I see. Well, Miss Granger, I'll tell you this. You and I operate on the same intellectual level. I've known that since long before you graduated. Granted, the Gryffindor in you makes you a bit more rash and insolent than is prudent, but when you aren't worked into an emotional frenzy, you're actually quite intelligent."

Hermione couldn't keep the confused look off her face. Who was he and what had he done with Snape?

Another exasperated sigh.

"What I'm trying to say is that more likely than not, we will see each other quite a bit. Especially since your focus at University is Potions."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I may have been a horrible, judgmental, and thoroughly biased teacher, but that doesn't mean I don't keep tabs on my former students. It's mostly Slytherins, but there are a few others that warranted my continued attention."

"Who else, besides me?"

"From your house? Potter and Longbottom."

"What?!" she almost yelled. This was the most confusing conversation she'd ever had!

"Potter…use your imagination."

"All right. But Neville? You couldn't stand him! I swear to Merlin, sometimes you looked as though you were about to give yourself five strokes and a heart attack all at once!"

"I keep an eye on him for precisely that reason. If that boy _ever_ tries to do anything even remotely resembling potion brewing I will personally step in and fire an unforgivable at him _and _the ass that agreed to it!"

"That sounds more like you," Hermione chuckled.

"Does it," he said. It was more of a bemused statement than a question. "Forgive me for being rude, Miss Granger, but I must inform you that you know absolutely nothing about me."

"That much is becoming obvious to me very quickly," she replied, collapsing onto the sand next to him. "But why were you so…" she searched for a diplomatic way to say it, "cantankerous during school?"

"You've no idea how difficult it is to groom Slytherins to be Death Eaters and heroes at the same time."

"I imagine it's difficult to do _anything_ with them."

His eyebrow went up and she realized the unintentional insult she'd just tossed out.

"I didn't mean—" she backpedaled.

"It's perfectly all right. It's the truth."

Hermione felt flustered for no good reason. "It must have been very stressful."

"Stress doesn't even begin to define it."

"But it worked. You salvaged a few of them."

"Not nearly enough, Miss Granger. Not nearly enough."

She frowned. It was obvious that he harbored some guilt even now. "You did everything you could," she stated firmly.

"That is up for debate."

There was no talking him out of it. Honestly, she didn't want to; she had no desire to discuss the war or its prelude, either, so she switched gears. "It's over now, thank God."

"Yes," he said, but he didn't sound convinced. "Over. Anyhow…would you like to see what I'm doing?"

Hermione nodded and watched in rapt fascination as he opened his palms to reveal a glass sculpture. It was caked with mud and other debris except where he'd started to meticulously clean it. She leaned closer; a very careful look told her that it was in the shape of a dragon, and when it was fully restored, it would be absolutely breathtaking.

"May I?" she asked, lifting a hand hesitantly. He nodded. She touched a clear part of the glass gently, and gasped when the color within the glass – a deep blue – changed into sea green where her fingertips rested. That had to mean that there was something inside the dragon. It was not a sculpture, it was a vessel. And the liquid within it…

"It's a potion!" she exclaimed with awe.

"I wouldn't be picking at it for any other reason."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No. But it seems to be more responsive to your magic than mine. It doesn't change color when I touch it."

Hermione watched the green fade back to blue. "That's odd."

"What might that mean, Miss Granger?"

She gave him a look. "Don't go into teacher mode on me now."

"Just a harmless question, Miss Granger," he said, but she could hear the smirk in his voice. Lord, was his smooth baritone expressive.

"Well if you must know, Mister Snape, it probably means it's a potion geared towards females."

"A gold star for Miss Granger."

"You're still snarky."

"You're still a know-it-all," he fired back. Though he forgot to add in the 'insufferable' part – that didn't escape her notice.

"I think you get off on arguing." Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph. Had she just said that out loud? His eyebrows had gone up, almost into his hairline. His lips twitched.

"If I get off on arguing, then you most certainly get off on books."

"It depends what's in the book," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a defiant look. If she was in for a penny, she was in for a pound.

The twitching of his lips transformed into a fleeting smile. But before he could say whatever had popped into his mind, a loud whoop interrupted them.

"_Mon Dieu_, Severus! I leave for twenty minutes and you've already found yourself a lady."

He rolled his eyes. "You are unequivocally blond sometimes, my friend."

"The Muggles do say that blonds have more fun. Perhaps I should test that hypothesis?" he said devilishly, drawing his wand.

"Lucius, do shut up and meet our new associate, although I daresay you already know her in one way or another. Hermione Granger, I give you Lucius Malfoy."

Lucius was so surprised that he dropped his wand in the sand. Hermione was similarly stunned, and Severus mentally congratulated himself for shocking them both so thoroughly.

"Hermione Granger," Malfoy said, his blue-grey eyes narrowing. "The annoying Gryffindor know-it-all." But then his aristocratic eyebrow went up. "You two are awfully chummy, you know."

Hermione glanced at Severus; they were indeed in close proximity to each other because she'd been examining the glass dragon.

"She's just looking at the potion," he said, a tad defensively.

"Mm hmm." Lucius smiled an infuriating smile, and Hermione began to see where Draco had gotten it from.

"Well, Miss Granger, I am pleased to make your acquaintance again, and under better circumstances than the last time. I do hope you'll forgive me for transgressions past," he said, bowing slightly.

Hermione was absolutely amazed. Snape wasn't the only one that had changed. For once, Lucius Malfoy didn't look totally polished and undeniably immaculate. That wasn't to say he didn't look good; the beach had that effect on people. He, too, was much tanner than she'd ever seen him, although paler than Snape. The apples of his cheeks were rosy with sunburn, which served to further emphasize the impossible blue of his eyes. Speaking of those eyes…they no longer reminded her of glacial sheets of ice. Now, oddly enough, they held a Dumbledore-esque twinkle, but she wasn't fooled; once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin, and she suspected that he was living it up now that Draco was off at University. His hair was the same pale platinum and was half up and half down, clumped and curled slightly from the salt and sediment of the sea. He was dressed in a loose white shirt and clam digger pants and had on a rather battered pair of black thong sandals. Overall, he looked…how to phrase it…attractively disheveled.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, nodding and extending a hand, not really knowing what else to say.

"Lucius," he corrected, taking her hand and clasping it briefly. "Provided, of course, that I may call you Hermione."

All right, not everything about him had changed. He still gave off the aura that everything he came into contact with was somehow his or was subject to his will. She experienced that same feeling the first day she'd seen him, in Flourish and Blotts before second year. He'd walked right up to Harry as if there were no rules about personal space and taken his sweet time assessing the Boy Who Lived. Yes, Lucius Malfoy definitely had creepy authority down pat.

"Certainly," she said, determined to play it cool around him.

"Marvelous," he said, once again flashing that annoyingly knowledgeable smile. "Well, I'll leave you two to your work. I must encourage you to eat at some point, though. Dinner was fantastic. The shrimp were as big as your nose, Severus."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"Gladly," he smirked before turning and wandering down the beach to where the tide lapped at the sand. Hermione watched as he made his way back towards the site and then paused to stare at the sunset, letting the waves break over his feet and ankles.

"You needn't worry about him," Snape said after a moment.

"I can't help it," she replied truthfully.

"I understand. But I mean it. He'd sooner cut off his own leg than hurt anyone now."

"I guess I'm just intimidated. He holds himself so…so…I don't know if there's a word for it."

"You'll get used to it."

"I suppose I'll have to," Hermione sighed. This was an interesting development; never in her life did she think she would end up spending extended periods of time with Snape _or_ Lucius Malfoy. She had a feeling it would either end up being great or completely awful. These men did not have a middle ground.

"How long will you be here?" Snape asked.

"As long as my Professor is, I guess."

"Which one is he?"

"Professor Ehleringer, the ancient charms specialist from Luxembourg."

"Hm," was all Snape said to that. When she looked over a moment later he'd returned to his work with the glass dragon. Merlin, she wished every man had hands like his. Even back in school she'd been mesmerized by them. They were as deft with the cleaning tools as they were with potions ingredients. Bend, flex, flick of the wrist, tense, brush…her mind catalogued the minute motions of his fingers, marveling at how controlled he was.

He knew she was watching him, but found that he didn't mind. He continued as long as the light allowed him.

"It's dark," he said, knowing that the statement was completely unnecessary.

"Yes," she replied. She was more relaxed than she had been in months. It didn't make for much motivation to get up.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked.

"Are you?" She was starving, but Snape seemed to be immune to the charms of food.

"No, but if I don't eat, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Let's go, then."

And so it was that they made their way back to camp side by side, silent but strangely comfortable in each other's presence.

* * *

Well, this is quite a development. I always knew Severus liked her more than he let on. How could he not? She was so bloody smart, much to both my and Draco's dismay. I spent seven years living with Severus. I know what kind of women he's attracted to. There aren't many in the world, but Hermione Granger is one of them.

She looked as surprised to see me as I am to be here. I'm drifting more powerlessly than the strip of seaweed that is buffeted up against my foot by the waves. It's been a while since I left the Ministry. The problem is that I don't have any specific passion like Severus does. For so long my passion revolved around the cleansing of wizarding blood and the dark, cloaked circle that attempted to make it happen.

I changed sides during the war. Voldemort killed Narcissa in a fit of boredom one day; it angered me but I overlooked it. I was too obsessed to really care. That first thing didn't have much of an effect on me; as many people suspected, she was a just a trophy wife. There wasn't much love between us and in my opinion Narcissa was far too apathetic when it came to Draco. It is odd for me to have thought this way back then, when I was so bloodthirsty and detached, but Draco really was and is the center of my world.

That winter, Voldemort decided to test my loyalty. Draco was given a suicide mission. True, no one called it that, but everyone knew. This time insult was added to injury and my seemingly non-existent paternal instincts went into overdrive. I tried to quell them, to beat them down, telling myself that if anyone could survive it was Draco. Denial is a powerful thing, indeed.

The moment I saw my son readying himself for his last act, I lost it. I could see in his face that he didn't want to do it. He didn't want to have any part of this, but he was there because it was what I wanted. I had forced him into something terrible, something he wasn't and would never be ready for. And what was I that I could do that to him? What was I if I could let my only son die for a cause he hadn't chosen? I couldn't let him die before he had ever lived, especially not at the whim of a madman.

I simply pulled my wand and started firing unforgivables. Severus, not entirely understanding the coup but knowing a chance to gain an ally when he saw it, also pulled his wand. I was killing anyone that got in my way. Voldemort aimed a Killing Curse at me, but Severus aimed his own and the two spells ricocheted. One hit Peter Pettigrew and the other sizzled harmlessly into a tree. Draco was unprepared for the chaos; later it would nearly kill me that he hadn't expected me to object. Someone hit him with a Jelly Legs hex to keep him from running. I gathered up my son, but with Draco in my arms, I couldn't use my wand properly. Severus moved to cover me, and Mad-Eye Moody, who I later learned had been monitoring the meetings, appeared with his wand ready and deadly accurate. But then Moody was partially hit with a petrification spell. Severus had been deflecting a curse fired at my left side when Voldemort decided to have another try at the Killing Curse. Severus turned in time to see the green bolt of energy and steeled himself for death, hoarsely ordering Moody and me to get the hell out of there. And then something knocked him hard on his side, something big, fuzzy, and canine-smelling. I didn't see much more than a blur. He went down and the curse missed him, hitting Rodolphus LeStrange instead. I turned and ran with Draco, Moody limping at my heels. Severus later told me his neck jarred upon hitting the ground and he had been momentarily stunned, but suddenly the fuzzy lump of flesh on top of him turned into a man, and he was shouting something, and then, in one massive nauseating lurch, they were at the gates of Hogwarts.

Yes, that was one momentous night. I, Lucius Malfoy had defected out of sheer, raw love for my son. I can't say I blame many people for not believing me at first, but Draco's needs were more immediate and I was allowed to stay at the castle. Nine Death Eaters had died courtesy of the combined efforts of Snape, Moody, and myself, putting a dent in Voldemort's numbers. Most shocking of all, Sirius Black had saved Severus Snape's life. From that night forward the two men had grudgingly buried the hatchet; they were on the same side, after all, and were concerned with the safety of the same people. The Order was ecstatic at this last development. It was much easier to conduct meetings and plot effectively without the two of them glaring daggers at each other over the table. They were far from best friends but a newfound respect kept them civilized. It solidified into cordial aloofness when Pettigrew's body was found and the verdict in Black's case was overturned. Black was a free man because Snape killed Pettigrew, proving conclusively that he had not died at Sirius's hand fourteen years before.

Since Severus had thawed towards Sirius, he also thawed marginally towards Potter, Weasley, Granger, and Lupin. I, however, had not. I still had my attitudes and my superiority complex, but Dumbledore and the Order would not hurt Draco, so that was where I directed my energy. Not that I had much as it was; Voldemort was enraged at my disobedience and routinely cast horrific charms and curses over me through the Dark Mark. I nearly died in front of all of them at dinner once; Voldemort cursed me with the _Febricula Fatalis_. It was an awful curse; it slowly raised the body temperature of the victim over a course of 48 hours until his or her very blood boiled, frying the brain and organs in an exceptionally painful method of death. I was lucky, really. Since the curse had been cast over a long distance, and onto a talisman rather than directly onto my person, the effects of the curse abated in forty hours. It had still spiked my temperature well past the safe range as Draco maintained a vigil at my bedside. There was a terrifying moment where my heart stopped, or so they tell me; I don't remember anything. Madame Pomfrey was able to bring me back. Bless that embattled mediwitch…

The end of that incident signaled the first crack in my armor of aloofness. I had occasionally stepped in on some DADA classes; I was an expert, after all. But other than those infrequent appearances, none of the children ever associated with me. And yet I woke up to a veritable mountain of cards and small Hogsmeade-bought gifts. They were all given selflessly by students who didn't even know me, and worse, students who did and still wished me well. Get well soon, Mr. Malfoy, a Hufflepuff first year named Tara Oakley had written. Not even a month before, I'd terrorized the poor girl for failing to disarm her partner the first time in a class exercise. It angered me at first – stupid children, being so forgiving! It would get them nowhere in a war-torn world! Holding a grudge could save your life!

Then I witnessed Hermione Granger, the mudblood, entering the cubicle (thinking I was asleep) and draping a blanket over Draco, who had at last succumbed to a relieved slumber. That also infuriated me – how dare the mudblood touch my perfect son! - until Draco explained to me that Crabbe and Goyle had attacked him, and the Gryffindor trio had saved him from being buggered and beaten to death in the dark, cold dungeon corridors. It had become so bad that Snape and McGonagall had both given Draco permission to sleep in the Room of Requirement, where the thugs couldn't lay their hands on him.

I persuaded Pomfrey to show me the records after Draco's run-in with his former bodyguards; even with the Golden Gryffindors intervening, my son had needed 50 magical stitches, resetting of two broken fingers, minor healing of bruised ribs, the regrowth of a tooth that had been knocked out, and over four hours of healing attention for other various bruises and abrasions. I shudder to think what the boy would look like if Crabbe and Goyle had had their way. I made the most effort I ever have to be courteous to the Gryffindors after that. I didn't scowl at them. I tried very hard not to make derogatory comments towards them. And I stopped using the world 'mudblood'. It was the least I could do. But after so many years, it was difficult to simply give up all my prejudices; I found that they were ingrained into my mannerisms, my speech, my entire personality. I wanted to be free of them, but I knew it would take time. So even as Draco became closer to and actually befriended The Boy Who Lived and his best friends, I still maintained my air of aloofness. It was acting, and I had to play my part. Severus had taught me that.

Severus…

Voldemort hadn't tortured him through the Mark as he had with me. That was what had frightened me the most. The Dark Lord knew that Severus was a traitor, yet acted as if nothing was amiss. But we all knew that he had his plans for the spy and it was only a matter of time.

That time came six months before the end of the war. Crabbe and Goyle (it was undeniable, the two idiotic goons left their fingerprints all over the place) had placed a portkey in the Potions classroom, one they knew Snape would touch. And in the middle of Gryffindor/Slytherin Double Potions, Snape had simply disappeared.

He was found two weeks later. He looked like the prisoners in Azkaban do just before they die: gaunt, disjointed, grey-skinned, dull-eyed, and utterly, utterly devoid of hope. No one knew what had been done to him and he wouldn't speak. The only thing they could do was send him to St. Mungo's, hoping that whatever had been done could be reversed.

He tried to commit suicide twice and didn't speak a single word for three months. He barely ate, in spite of all the efforts of the nurses. And then, by all accounts, one day he simply snapped out of it. It's been said that he walked calmly up to his nurse, and, even using her proper name, asked her for a book and a ham and cheese sandwich. Apparently he even asked for mayonnaise.

A gentleman to the last, Severus Snape.

He's gotten much better since then. I still have to harass him to make sure he eats properly; he tends to forget. He still hasn't spoken of what happened back then, but I know he has nightmares. They've tapered off significantly, thank Merlin. I live in the same cabin as him here and he hasn't woken up screaming even once so far. Knock on wood…

I wish I knew how his mind worked. He's so different now. He returned to teaching at Hogwarts after his ordeal, but Draco told me he was much more lenient and sedate. I suppose he had no reason left to perpetuate the 'Greasy Git' image. He was still recovering at that time, I think. Perhaps he felt like I feel now: adrift, confused, and unwieldy.

He left Hogwarts a year after Draco graduated. Dumbledore didn't want him to go, but I think the old man knew it was about time to let Severus live his own life. He disappeared for a year or so. I don't know where he went or what he did, but whatever it was, it was damned good for him. He returned to England a completely changed man. I've heard stories about the day he visited Hogwarts; he'd stunned the entire school into silence because he looked healthy, his hair wasn't greasy, he didn't snap at anyone, he actually smiled, and for Merlin's sake, he was wearing something besides black.

It's getting dark. I wiggle my toes in the moist sand, sighing. The only thing Severus is missing now is a good woman in his life. Incidentally, that's one of the things I'm missing as well. Hermione Granger is attractive; I'm sure I could seduce her if I really tried. But she doesn't like me. She doesn't like me at all. I've given her no reason to. That, and I'm nearly two decades older than her. So is Severus, of course, but who cares? She likes that tall, dark, and oddly handsome combination – she dated Viktor Krum, after all, who, at eighteen, resembled Severus a great deal. I glance behind me; they're sitting next to each other on the sand. He's working on that blasted potion, leaning slightly toward her. She's watching him intently. Strange. Severus usually hates it when anyone observes him so closely. Merlin, how loudly body language speaks. You'd have to be sodding catatonic to miss the chemistry between them.

I resume my walk back to camp with a disgusted snort. What is the world coming to when I, Lucius Malfoy, am reduced to playing matchmaker?


	3. Chapter 3

_Who did they think they were?  _

_Lilith__ stabbed the handle of her wand into the wet sand and ground it in, twisting the polished stalk of wood.  How could they do this to her?  And now, NOW, when she was just getting good at it, when she was beginning to love it?!_

_She pulled her wand out of the sand and brushed the tiny grains off it.  They were always like this.  Every time she found something she excelled at or that she enjoyed, they wanted to move on.  It almost seemed like they waited for her to start showing signs of happiness, and as soon as she did, they began to look for a new place to live.  Why in the nine hells did her parents have to act as though they were fugitives fleeing the law?  Why couldn't they just settle down in ONE place and be happy?  And for the love of Merlin, if they were so restless, then why had they decided to have a child?_

_Lilith__ looked around, hoping the environment would calm her.  The beach was still and beautiful.  The ocean was at low tide and the waves lapped rhythmically against the shore.  She listened to the rushing sounds for a few minutes and thankfully, her heart ceased hammering against her ribs and the hot tingle of anger in her veins began to fade into sad resignation.  Sure, she'd put up a fight this time, but the reality was that tomorrow she'd go home, and they'd forgive her, and they'd move on again._

_She lay back on the sand, not caring that it would probably get in her hair and clothes.  The moon was out, full and glistening with a steely silver varnish.  Lilith stared up at it, wondering to herself that if the rays of moonlight had hands, what would it feel like for them to touch her, to caress her skin?_

_She closed her eyes, clutching her wand tightly in a sweaty palm.  Would there be schools of magic where her parents dragged her next?  Would there be breathtaking beaches, friendly Muggles, and amazing cuisine?  It was so unfair.  She didn't want to leave._

_Hot tears began to spill down her cheeks, and she turned on her side, curling up into a tight ball.  Maybe one day she should really run away.  Although in her case, running away would just be calling some place home – for more than a year._

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Hermione woke with a slight jerk.  For a moment, she was confused; her heart was pounding and her eyes were stinging.  Why was her face wet?  Her hands were shaking as she brought them up to her cheeks.  She'd been crying.  Crying in her dreams.  Something in her nightly mind-wanderings had made her terribly sad, but she couldn't remember what it was.  It had become fuzzy the moment she'd opened her eyes, and with each passing minute, it grew more and more obscure.

Shaken, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood.  She stretched briefly and then went to the loo.  As she splashed water on her face to rid herself of the appearance of crying, she wracked her brain for answers.  What had she been reliving in her dreams that had reduced her to tears?  Certainly she'd experienced a lot of sad things, the foremost event being Ron's death at the hands of Voldemort, but somehow she knew without question that the dream had not been about Ron.  Those dreams had a particular look to them, a particular way…they were greyscale.  The only color she saw in those dreams was the bright orange mop of Weasley hair, the impossible red of Voldemort's eyes, and the plaintive green of Harry's.

No.  This dream had been full color.  And it had been here, right on this beach.  But other than that, she could recall nothing.  Hermione sighed and combed her hair back into a presentable ponytail.  It did share one thing in common with her dreams of Ron – it would leave a leaden feeling in her stomach all day.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Something's not right with Granger this morning.  I'm staring at her over my latkes.  It's still early, so there are only a few people at the table.  She didn't even notice me when she came, and she doesn't notice me now, in spite of the fact that I'm ogling at her like an owl that's flown into the window one too many times.

She's not eating the food on her plate.  She's pushing it around with her fork, sculpting it into little shapes and structures, but not a bite of it has gone into her mouth.  Something is bothering her.  Already.

Women never cease to amaze me in some ways.  How is it that she can go somewhere, and in twelve hours, the drama has already begun?

I doubt that she's homesick.  What is there to be homesick for?  This place is better than England in many ways.  It's so relaxed and untamed and _good_ that I hardly find myself missing the Manor.  I don't even miss having the sniveling house elves as servants.  Oddly, I've found that doing one's own work can be curiously…therapeutic.  People who have labored all their lives would probably laugh at me.  Either that, or punch me in the face.  Perhaps that's why Arthur Weasley felt compelled to attack me that one time…

Should I ask her what's the matter?  That's not really the question.  If I ask her, will she answer?  That's the true dilemma.  She might answer, but not necessarily in an honest way.  Is it worth asking, even if, more likely than not, I'll receive a bullshit response?  I've given enough in my lifetime to know how easy they are.

Hm.  Thought.  Perhaps I'll tip Severus off on her dismal mood.  Yes, that's a good idea.  I'll tell him I didn't want to pry, since I get the feeling that she doesn't really trust me.  Maybe she would be more inclined to talk to him.  And of course he'll make a point of speaking to her, because deep down in his iron-clad heart, he cares about her.  And she, being a sentimental little Gryffindor, will spill everything to him.  He'll comfort her.  She'll discover his practically nonexistent empathic side and be swept off her feet.

Er.  Right.  Perhaps it won't be that simple, but it's a step.  And a step forward, even if it's a baby step, is better than no step at all.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Severus frowned to himself.

"This can't be all there is," he said.  Several heads, including Hermione's and Lucius's, nodded in agreement.  It was two o'clock in the afternoon, and after almost continuous work, they still could not locate any other part of the school. 

"I don't believe this is the whole thing either," Cyrus, the head excavator, said.  "But we can't find anything that even remotely resembles a door or a passage."

"It doesn't make sense.  We know this is a potions lab.  But why would they use this one room for everything?"

"Have you tried revealing spells?" Lucius suggested.

"We've tried everything," Cyrus replied, sounding exasperated.

"Maybe we're looking too hard," Hermione said thoughtfully.  They all turned to look at her.  "Well, you know, perhaps it's something really simple that we've been overlooking because we think it can't possibly be that obvious."

"Like what?" Lucius asked rather flippantly.

"I don't know…" Hermione said, walking down the aisle between two of the long, scarred wooden tables.  "In Muggle movies there are always secret buttons hidden in sculptures or bookcases."

Lucius wasn't the only one that snorted.

"In all fairness," Severus said, before a debate could break out, "Miss Granger may have a point.  We've all been searching for a magical apparatus to lead us to the other parts of the school.  Perhaps it is something less sophisticated."

There was a rumble of agreement.  Hermione stole a look at Snape, her brow creasing.  It was not so long ago that he would have scoffed at her ideas, too.  But had he meant what he said back in school?  Did he really think she was a snotty know-it-all or a naïve little girl?  Had he ever?  Did he still?  Hermione wondered why she should care, but for some reason, Snape's opinion meant a lot to her.  Come to think of it, it always had.  That's why his insults had hurt so much.  She hadn't run crying from the dungeon fourth year because of the insult about her teeth; Lord knew she'd heard enough of them to turn a deaf ear.  She had burst into tears because that insult had come from Snape – the one person in all of Hogwarts that she really sought approval from, and also the one person that refused to give it.  

It seemed that he approved now…

He caught her staring at him and quirked his lips slightly upwards.  She nodded and then pretended to busy herself with the search.  It was so strange to see him display his emotions.  Hell, it was strange to think of him as _possessing_ any emotions.  This Snape was totally incongruous with the one she'd grown up with.  That man had been so cold and mysterious…like one big grey area.  No past, no future…just Snape.  Just sarcastic unfair Gryffindor-hating potions genius Snape.  Clandestine Snape.  Buttoned-up Snape.  Infuriating Snape.

What was he now?  She appraised him as he examined a shelf for the third time.  It was like looking through a camera that had been flipped to contrast; where there had been pale, there was now dusky tan.  Where there had been lank, greasy seaweed-on-a-rock hair, there was now lush brown-black hair pulled into a haphazard and very appealing half-ponytail with a leather cord.  And where there had been miles of black, black fabric covering all but his face and hands, now he seemed almost…whore-ishly revealed in normal clothing.  All in all, his appearance had approved tremendously, as had his temperament.  And yet…Hermione wasn't sure if she really liked this Snape.  There were still traces of the old one in his expressions and his speech, but other than that…it was like her Potions Master had died along with Voldemort.

"Well, bugger me sideways…"

That had come from Lucius.  Everyone turned to look at him.  He was leaning against a bust of Hecate; the head was pulled back to reveal a small, glowing platform.  Hermione had seen something like it before, when she'd visited Gringotts with Harry.  It was an identification spell of some sort.  One had to put one's hand above it, at which point it did something (she didn't know exactly what) to determine who the person was.  If that person was approved for entry, they would be let through.  If not, they were rejected.

"An identification spell," Cyrus said, visibly and audibly annoyed.  "Why such security?"

"Perhaps there was important research going on here," Severus replied.  "It wouldn't be unreasonable, if that was the case."

"Well, hurrah for security, but that thing isn't set to admit any of us," the one American in the group, a witch named Dawn, pointed out.

"I don't see why we can't give it a try," Lucius shrugged.  "What is it going to do, rip your arm off if you're not the right person?"

There was a pointed silence, during which every person was thinking that yes, that might be exactly what it would do.

"Honestly, you're all a bunch of pansies," the blond wizard sighed, and before anyone could stop him, he placed his right hand against the glowing platform.

Some people gasped; others closed their eyes, not wishing to see whatever violent rejection he might get.  Hermione watched with her mouth hanging open.  All right, there was another thing about Lucius Malfoy that hadn't changed.  He was still as mad as a hatter!

Slowly, though, people opened their eyes again.  There had been no scream, no sound of pain.  Lucius stood perfectly still.  It was taking an awfully long time to scan him, but he didn't dare move.  If it was going to work, he couldn't so much as shift.  But after a minute passed, and then another, even he began to look a bit apprehensive.

"What is it doing?" someone whispered.

At that moment, the glow that had illuminated Lucius for several minutes promptly blinked out.  Everyone in the room froze.  Hermione looked at the older wizard with her hand pressed over her mouth; surely his punishment would come now.  His wide blue eyes told her that he was thinking the same thing.

But then…a whispering sound, like a hundred voices murmuring different phrases at the same time, and the opposite wall seemed to dissolve and reshape itself…into a staircase.

"Merlin's beard!" Cyrus exclaimed, his eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets.  There were similar statements heard all around the room.  Hermione couldn't believe her eyes.  It was impossible, and yet it had worked!  She looked over at Snape; his face showed no reaction, aside from the drawing of his brows and the all-too familiar furrow between them.  Her eyes then traveled to Malfoy.  He was staring at his hand, his face a mixture of confusion and surprise.

Everyone flooded to the staircase except for Severus, Lucius, and Hermione.  The cacophony of their voices faded as they descended into the heart of the school, leaving their British associates behind.

"I didn't expect it work," Lucius said after a few more minutes of puzzled silence.  "I just wanted to show them it wouldn't chop anyone's bloody arm off.  They wouldn't have such harsh penalties in a school with children around…"

"Interesting," Severus remarked slowly.  His mind was working feverishly on this paradox, Hermione could tell.  Lucius, however, didn't give it much more thought.  With a resigned shrug, he turned to his companions and said,

"Shall we explore?"

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

After the day's discovery, Lucius was the man of the hour.  Others had tried to pass the identification spells and received a mild electrical shock for their troubles.  It seemed that the only person the spells accepted was Lucius.  They'd discovered eight more classrooms, and there was still much more beneath the sand.  

Later, at dinner, they drank to Lucius.  And drank, and drank…the blond wizard had already drunk six other wizards under the table (one of which was her University professor), and he could still say his alphabet backwards – in French.

"Where does he put it all?" Hermione mused aloud.  She had expected him to be a cheap drunk, considering that Draco was more or less gone after two or three shots of anything.  Then again, he was a bit slighter than his father, having inherited Narcissa's waifish bone structure.  Lucius was more solid, but the way he was drinking, it shouldn't have mattered.

"We used to theorize that he has a mutated liver," Snape said from across the table.  There was an amused inflection in his voice.  "Give him time.  But stay away from him.  He gets rowdy."

"Rowdy?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Pray that he doesn't feel the urge to sing," was all Snape said.

The table vibrated as Lucius and his three remaining drinking partners slammed down their shot glasses.

"_Onze__!" he announced joyfully, waving the half-empty bottle of ouzo around.  Hermione could not help but smile; of the three that were leftover, only Dawn seemed to have a fighting chance.  The American woman was holding her own.  Although that shouldn't be surprising; Hermione had heard that in America, when University students were bored, they drank.  She probably had a liver of steel.  "__Maintenant__, douze!" came Lucius's call as he refilled the four glasses._

"Is he also immune to hangovers?" she asked.  This actually drew a chuckle out of Severus.

"No.  He'll not be very pleasant tomorrow."

"At least that'll give me a reason to avoid him."  The words were out before Hermione could stop herself.  Snape's eyebrow went up, but he said nothing.

They both watched as the twelfth shot went down, and with it, one more of the imbibers.  It was Dharvish, a quirky Indian wizard.  He slumped against Dawn and turned over his shot glass.

"I thinkkkk…" he slurred, swaying slightly, "I've had 'nuff."  He tried to stand, and never would have made it if Dawn hadn't steadied him.

"Good show, chap!" Lucius said, raising his glass in a salute.  Cyrus and Dawn, the two remaining contestants, mirrored his actions before sending him off in the general direction of the cabins.

"T…Tr…fuck me, I forgot thirteen!" Lucius announced merrily.

"_Trieze_," Dawn supplied.

"_Ah, oui, trieze!__  Vous n'avez pas de chance!  Buvez!"_

Another shot went down.

"Miss Granger," Severus inquired, leaning slightly over the table, "would you like to take a walk to escape this spectacle?"

Part of her wanted to see who won, but the greater part of her jumped at the chance of time alone with him.  It had been surprisingly pleasant yesterday, and oddly comforting.  Perhaps he'd felt the same way?

"Sure," she said, standing.  "Although I am still curious about Mr. Malfoy's 'rowdiness', as you phrase it."

Snape's eyebrow arched severely as he offered his arm.

"He won't be keeping you awake in the wee hours of the morning with his stunning renditions of _Les Feuilles Mortes _and other French classics…"

As if on cue, Lucius's voice rose in a loud (and very obviously drunken) tenor.

"_C'est__ une chanson…toi qui resemble…"_

"Merlin save me, he's starting early," Snape grumbled.  Hermione laughed and could only laugh harder when he shot her a somewhat scathing look.  There was a bit of the Snape she knew, only that Snape never would have offered her his arm for (oh, the cliché!) a long walk on the beach.

"At least he's not an angry drunk," she said by way of consolation.

"I suppose."

They walked a few paces in silence, broken only by Snape's annoyed sigh as Lucius's voice echoed on the wind,

"_Quatorze_!_"_

"I never thought I'd see the day…" Hermione murmured.

"Yes, surely the apocalypse is upon us," was the reply, laced with gentle sarcasm. 

"You've changed.  A lot."

"You haven't."

"Why did you leave Hogwarts?"

"There was nothing left for me there.  I put my life on hold for nearly twenty years, Miss Granger.  I thought it was about time to go out and do something I could actually enjoy."

"Why are you talking to me like this?"

"There's no reason I shouldn't be, is there?" he asked, tilting his head.

"No, but…it's just…not you."

"I told you earlier that you know nothing of the real me."

"I know, but it's difficult to reconcile this image of you with the Professor I knew."

"Shall I powder my face and dress all in black and go about deducting house points tomorrow, just for posterity?" he asked.

"Don't forget to skip your shower," she added.  And immediately she said, "I'm sorry, that was unkind."

"I'll have you know, Miss Granger, that it was a flame-retardant potion.  I did not simply decide that hygiene was not for me.  I had no desire to have my hair lit on fire by Longbottom or some other incompetent student."

Hermione should have felt bad about her comment, but instead burst out laughing at the mental picture his last statement invoked.  He gave her a sideways look and then rolled his eyes.

"You're picturing me on fire, aren't you."

That, of course, made her laugh so hard that she doubled over.  Shaking his head, Severus said, "Here's as good a spot as any."  And with that, he lowered himself to the sand and stretched out, waiting for her laughing fit to pass.

"I'm sorry…it's just…I…ohhh…" Hermione clutched her stomach, which was beginning to hurt from laughing so hard.  Eventually she calmed down, breathing hard and wiping tears of mirth from her cheeks.

"I'm sure that wasn't the first laugh you've had at my expense."

"No…there was that time with the boggart…"

A snort.

"What was it, a pink cocktail dress?"

"Something like that."

"What did you see before you banished that boggart, Miss Granger?"

"Do you promise not to laugh at me?"

"Considering the circumstances, no."

"All right, all right.  I saw McGonagall yelling at me – telling me I'd failed everything and I was getting kicked out of school."

She'd expected him to at least chuckle at that; it really was ridiculous.  But he only shook his head and replied,

"I sorely wish I had such benign fears."

She didn't really know what to say to that.  She'd never considered this angle of things.  What _would_ Snape see if confronted with a boggart?  Would it be Voldemort?  The Death Eaters?  The faces of people he'd hurt or killed?  A barrage of all those things?  Or would it be something else entirely, something she couldn't even fathom?

He cleared his throat, which brought her back from her mental wanderings.

"Is everything all right, Miss Granger?"

"Of course, why wouldn't it be?" she said, frowning slightly.

"Lucius told me you seemed a bit out of sorts this morning."

"So that's why he was staring at me at breakfast."

"Yes.  He said that he doesn't think you trust him, and that maybe you'd speak to me."

"He's right, I don't trust him.  And it's nothing.  Just a bad dream, is all."

"Ah.  I was hoping that you hadn't received bad news, or anything of that nature."

She turned to look at him.

"No, just a silly dream…" she murmured, contemplating his profile.  "Thank you for caring, though."

He gave a nod and a small, fleeting smile.  Then he lapsed back into his troubled silence and she followed suit, making herself comfortable on the sand.  A few minutes later, however, she sat up rapidly, having realized something.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

A slight raise of an ebony eyebrow.  It annoyed her that he could say so much with that one tiny gesture.

"I was just remembering…the moon was in my dream.  Only it was full."

They both glanced at the waxing moon.

"You weren't, perchance, being chased by a werewolf, were you?" he asked, only half-serious.

"No.  I don't know what was happening."

"Hm."

She settled back down on the sand, folding her hands behind her head.

"It's gorgeous.  You could sleep out here," she said around a yawn.  When she got no response, she closed her eyes.  

Ten minutes later, Severus glanced over at her.  Hermione had fallen asleep.  He sighed and shook his head.  Exactly how and when had he started caring about the annoying little Gryffindor?  He had the distinct feeling that something big was going to happen out here.  Nothing this momentous ever came without its share of backlash.  And he had to admit that he was beginning to feel…protective towards the curly-haired girl – no, woman, he corrected himself.  Of course, it was only because she was one of the better brains in the wizarding world, and he tended to favor those that were talented with Potions.  It certainly had nothing to do with anything else.  Nothing at all.

He returned his contemplation to the night sky.  She was right, it was truly nice enough to sleep outside on the beach.  But come morning the tide would roll in, and they'd most likely wake up soaked.  Not to mention that it would look rather suspicious if they didn't return to camp.  Couldn't have any rumors starting.  Although, he mused, by the time Lucius was done with his partying, he doubted anyone would even have the brain capacity to notice they were missing.

A few minutes later he stood, his joints popping in protest to the sudden movement.  Merlin, when had he gotten so old?  He bent down to gather the slumbering young woman in his arms, grimacing as his back made him aware of its dislike for his current activity.  Lord, he was old.  So old.  

That's all it was, he assured himself as he walked slowly back towards camp with Hermione in tow.  Just the desire to preserve a good brain and the body that housed it.  Nothing more.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Eeuuurgghhh.  Hello, this is Hangover Central, Lucius Malfoy speaking.

Ugh.  It feels like someone's shoved an entire plantation's worth of cotton into my mouth.  I'd kill for water, but the sink is so far away…

I try to sit up, and two things stop me.  One, a wicked slice of pain behind my eyes, and two, the extra body in the bed.  Bloody hell.  I push the blanket down, hoping she's at least pretty.

Hm.  It's Dawn, the American witch.  How in the hell did this happen?  She's very pretty, I'd even go so far as to say beautiful, but I find her to be a bit rough around the edges.  Too straightforward and uncouth for my tastes.  I can tell that she thinks the exact opposite about me; tight-assed British bastard, always thinking he's superior to everyone else.  That's fair, I suppose.

So…if we both dislike one another, how is it that we wound up in bed together?  I push the blanket down a little more; maybe we just passed out in the same bed.  Hm.  No such luck.  She does have perfectly delectable breasts, though.

I can't resist; I lift up the blanket and look at the rest of her.  Argh.  Of all the times not to remember my nocturnal activities.  In spite of my less than coherent condition, I feel my hormones surge.  I promptly drop the blanket back over her.  I shouldn't work myself up.  I couldn't possibly move to satisfy myself, even if I wanted to.  And I doubt that she'd really appreciate waking up to that.

Still, this could be interesting.

"So the King of the Bottle awakes."  Severus's voice rolls over me, making me wince.  I know he's speaking softly, but it still makes my head throb.

"Severus," I croak.  "Please tell me you have a hangover relief potion."

"I might," he smirks.  "But shouldn't your lady friend be your priority?"  Smarmy bastard.  He's sitting Indian-style on his bed working on that potion; there's a pan in his lap for everything he scrapes off it.

"Do you have enough for her, too?"  God, my voice sounds like I have the consumption.

"I suppose," he says.  "But I think I should let you suffer a little while longer.  After all, I didn't get to bed until four due to your…activities."

"Arsehole."

"Your pet names flatter me, Lucius."

"A pox on you," I grumble.  "Would you at least get me some water?"

"I'm not your house elf."

"Merlin's balls, no one said you had to stay sober and miss all the fun."

"Cease your whining, I'll bring you some water, you drunkard."

He does, although he takes his sweet time.  He even steadies my hand as I drink it.  Sometimes I forget what a good man he is.  My eyes begin to droop almost immediately.  I think he's put some sort of sleep inducing agent in the water.  Bloody potions freak, he's going to kill me someday.

Just before I drift off, I remember.

"'D'you talk to Granger?" I ask fuzzily.  My, whatever he slipped me, it's potent.

"Yes, she's fine.  Just some bad dreams."

"You should comfort her," I mutter.  I hear him laugh; he sounds far away.  I should have known better than to trust him.  Of course he'd drug me.

"Yes, I'm sure that's exactly what she wants: to seek comfort in the arms of her old, greasy Potions Master."

I try to say something more, but my mouth won't obey.  I think it instead, only it somehow winds up being in French.  I always seem to revert back to it when my mind isn't quite right.  It sticks with me as I fade back into my slumber.

_Ce_ n'est pas trop complique.___  On a besoin d'amour…_

A/N – Thanks everyone for all the reviews!  I wasn't expecting such a huge response.  I was overjoyed to see that so many people like this idea.  I do want to clarify some things that were brought up in the reviews.  Someone had commented that it was a bit unbelievable that Severus and Sirius had resolved their issues.  Mind you, I never said they were best friends.  They don't exactly go out drinking together, you know?  I meant it in the sense that they put aside their difficulties for the good of the cause.  They're definitely not attached at the hip.  It's more or less the same with Draco and the Trio, only they are a bit closer because they haven't spent the greater part of two and a half decades despising each other.  Someone also asked about the term 'petrushka' – it means 'friend' in Russian, I forgot to mention that last chapter.  I'd also like to address the issue of OOC.  I've had some difficulty writing this, because I do feel that sometimes I have Sev or Lucius OOC.  But the thing I would like to stress is that this is five or six years after the defeat of Voldemort, and a great deal happened to my two leading men before and during that final battle.  You will find out some of what happened to Severus.  I think it's easy enough to explain his personality change; major physical and psychological trauma can do that to a person.  And I promise you, Hermione did and does like the Old Snape, she just doesn't know it yet.  As for Lucius, I know he's a bit less believable, but people can have complete and total turnarounds of their lives for the sake of their children.  I do think he loves Draco in his own odd way, and I definitely don't think he's the Abraham type, ready to sacrifice his only child.  I'm trying to make him charismatic but still slightly shady (modeled after a friend of mine).  I promise you he'll never be 100% angelic.  That would just take all the fun out of him, right?  And for all you smut-aholics, Lucius will keep you well occupied until Sev and Hermione get down to business (translation: yes, the rating will go up).  I'm getting an idea of where I'm going with this, but I won't make any estimates as to length – those are always invariably wrong.  As for the French, well…I suffered through five years of it, I've got to use it somewhere.  Oh yeah, and don't worry, those who liked Anatole – he'll be mucking around, getting in trouble and stoking the fires of jealousy, I promise.  All right, this is the longest author's note ever, so I think it's time to end it.  Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the first 2!


	4. Chapter 4

Exactly how long is she going to sleep?  I got up nearly an hour ago, moving slowly and carefully so as not to wake her, but I'm beginning to doubt that anything short of a natural disaster will be enough to startle her out of her slumber.  I'm almost worried that she's ill, but she looks perfectly content.  She's on her back, still squished to the left side of the bed, one arm above her head and the other resting over her ribs.  I can see the outline of her curves through the sheet; the day has gotten warmer and I didn't want to stifle her under the blanket.

I'm fidgeting.  Lord, why am I so nervous?  It's not like I haven't done this before.  Although a small voice in the back of my head whispers that they were prostitutes, and she isn't.  Yes, that's right, I didn't pay for her affections, so far as I know.  The details range from fuzzy to nonexistent, but I am sure that our tumbling into bed together was mutual, at least in our intoxicated state.

Normally I'd be grateful that my one-time lover hadn't awakened at the same time I did.  But for some reason her continued slumber is making me very, very anxious.  I pick at the food Severus left me.  He's off assessing some of the artifacts they found yesterday.  The food is good, but my nerves and my overtaxed stomach prevent me from eating more than a quarter of what's on the plate.

My fork freezes in midair as she shifts.  She turns onto her left side, placing her back to me, and curls up a bit.  The sheet slips down off her shoulder and settles just above her waist.  I swallow heavily; perhaps I should have dressed her.  I've definitely underestimated the effect of a woman's bare, tanned, smooth back on a man that has not bedded anyone in a while.  Not for lack of interest, mind you, but there were simply more important things for me to be doing.

Her vertebrae don't stick out like Narcissa's did.  Instead, there is only a faint, smooth line where the column of bones rests.  Her shoulder blades are also much less pronounced, moving just so under her skin.  This is how a woman should be.  Not spindly and sharp-angled, but smooth, her body a menagerie of soft curves.

I'm beginning to wonder if Severus slipped me a love potion, as well.  Or maybe I've just been ignoring my baser cravings for so long that this not-so-abnormal situation is torturing me with my own pent-up lust.

I nearly drop the fork as she shifts again.  This time a low purring noise comes from her throat.  Merlin, if all women could make such sounds!  I feel myself go hot and cold at the same time.  She's turning towards me.  Onto her back again, and then her left knee bends and her right arm slips under the pillow, turning her body into my view.  And it is quite a view.  The sheet is now just below her navel.

I feel suddenly lecherous, and try to look away.  But where else in this simple cabin is there to look?  Her breasts rise and fall with a deep breath, and – Merlin save me – her eyes flutter open.

She blinks and her brow creases for a moment; I'm sure she is confused about both her location and her nudity.  Then her head turns, and her eyes (hazel-green) fix on me.

"Good morning," I say.  I can think of nothing else.

"Morning?" she says mildly, looking faintly amused.  She then proceeds to sit up and twist her torso towards the window, thus causing the sheet to slither all the way down to her calves.  Why on earth did I ever think lack of modesty was a bad thing?

"Perhaps not morning," I amend, determined not to look like a blithering idiot in front of her.

"Nearly evening," she agrees, looking at the position of the sun over the beach.

"Would you like a hangover relief potion?" I ask, remembering the second vial Severus left.

"I've never had one before, but if it will get rid of my headache, I won't turn it down," she says, turning her head and giving me a small smile.  I nod and move to retrieve it.  She's taking this very well.  Too well.  It worries me.

"Thank you," she says when I hand it to her.  I'm trying my best not to look at her when I remember something else.

"Shit!" I can't help exclaiming.  She looks up at me, eyebrows raised.  "It's just…I forgot a…," my brain decides to clam up, but I force myself to say it.  "A contraceptive potion."

"It's all right," she says with a wave of her hand.  I momentarily panic, my vision clouding over with black and red dots.  Aughh!  She was looking to get pregnant!  Why else would she have slept with me?  She probably wanted a good-looking man as the father, and one with lots of money so she could threaten him with lawsuits if he didn't pay the necessary fees.  I've been used!  Even worse, a child out of wedlock!  The good Malfoy name forever sullied…!

She must have noticed that I was four seconds away from a nervous breakdown, because she pulled me down gently onto the bed.  I sat stiffly, still half-shocked and convinced that I was going to have a bastard son or daughter in nine months.

"Relax," she says.  "I won't get pregnant.  I'm on the Muggle pill."

"The what?" I stammer.  Three cheers for my composure and eloquence under pressure.

"The Pill.  Haven't you heard of it?"

I shake my head dumbly.  I feel like I'm seconds away from a rather nasty myocardial infarction.

"Oh.  Well, it's just a tablet that I take every day.  It prevents me from ovulating, so…no egg, no pregnancy," she concludes rather cheerfully.  Damned Muggles and their science!

"You…trust their methods?" I ask, disbelieving.

"Why shouldn't I?  It's 99.9% effective."

My heart palpitations return.  Shit on a stick, there's a 0.1% chance that I could have impregnated her!

"Are you always this nervous after sex?" she asks, looking amused.

"I…no!" I sputter.  How can she be so relaxed?!  That stupid Muggle pill will probably do exactly the opposite of what it's supposed to do and she'll wind up pregnant with triplets!!!  Augghh!  I can picture the little Anglo-American witchlings and wizardlings with my eyes and her hair crawling all over the Manor.  I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and moan.

The bed shakes slightly, and I look over to see that she's collapsed onto her back and is laughing heartily.  How can she laugh?  I don't find this at all amusing.  I glare at her, and she settles down a bit.

"You're one of those crazy purebloods I've read about, aren't you," she says.  What?!  She's not a pureblood?  Oh no…no no no.  My ancestors will forever scorn me for ruining the Malfoy blood!

She rolls her eyes at my lack of response.

"I'm not pregnant, nor will I become pregnant, so you can stop worrying about your precious bloodline."

And with that, she rolls off the bed and walks towards the loo.

It takes me a minute to realize that I've insulted her horribly.  I didn't mean to…oh, Merlin, what an ass I am!  She actually seemed rather…comfortable with the fact that she'd slept with me, even if it was a drunken impulse.  And now I've gone and made it look like I couldn't bear the fact that I slept with someone with blood of less purity than my own.  I'm supposed to be more comfortable with the idea of non-purebloods in my life, but I just failed colossally to show it.  Really, I was just so caught up with the idea of accidentally begetting more heirs…

This time, I allow my head to drop into my hands.  There was potential here, and I just destroyed it.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Snape had carried her back.  Snape had tucked her into bed as gently as her own mother would have.  Ok, so he hadn't changed her into her pajamas, but she would rather be awake if he was going to take off her clothes, anyway…

Where had that thought come from?

"Miss Granger?" his low voice startled her out of the thoughts that had been cycling through her head all morning.  "Miss Granger, are you paying attention?"

"No," she said bluntly, shaking her head slightly to clear it.  He looked surprised for a moment, but then gave a small sigh.

"At least you're honest.  But then, I should expect nothing less of a Gryffindor.  Should I assume, then, that this lesson is futile?"

"No.  I just have a few things on my mind.  And can you please call me Hermione?"

"As you wish…Hermione," he said.  She did not miss the slight catch in his voice – he would have to get used to calling her by her given name.  She waited expectantly for him to speak again, but nothing came.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Well what?"

"You're not going to tell me that I can call you Severus?"

"You can call me whatever you want, Miss Granger, I am powerless to stop you."

"Hermione."

"Hermione," he corrected himself.

"Anything I want, hm?"

"Anything as long as it is not Greasy Git or Overgrown Bat.  I have had quite enough of those endearments."

"You hardly qualify as either anymore."

"Stop, you're making me blush," he said, completely deadpan.  Hermione stifled a giggle as he calmly continued to coax dirt out of the crevices of the glass dragon with an instrument that looked, to her, like a dentist's pick.

"I'm going to call you Severus," she finally asserted.

"If that is what pleases you, Miss Granger."

"HERMIONE!"

Severus cringed and put a hand over his right ear.

"Well.  Now that I've lost thirty percent of my hearing, I must say in my defense that I have been calling you Miss Granger for the better part of twenty years.  It is not so simple to change one's habits."

"I have no problem with it, _Severus_," she retorted.

He gave an exasperated sigh, and then said,

"I will make an effort, but I'll not have you screeching in my ear like a harpy every time I forget."

"It's called negative reinforcement, Severus.  And quit acting like you're some senile old man.  You and I both know you're the sharpest mind England has produced in a good long time." 

He gave his standard response – a snort.  He wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her that intelligence and Death Eater did not belong in the same sentence.

By the tight, thin line his lips pursed into, she could tell that the last statement had somehow rubbed him the wrong way.  But before she got the chance to extract it from him, the sound of a door banging open and a rather interesting tidbit of conversation made them both look towards the row of cabins – the first of which housed Severus and Lucius.

"Fuck off, Malfoy!  What don't you understand?!  Do I need to say it in your native language?!  Fine._  Fils de putain!  Va t'faire enculer chez les Grecs!"_

And with that, Dawn stormed off towards her own cabin.  There was a momentary silence, and then the door, most likely propelled by a spell, slammed with a loud crack.

"That did not look promising."

Hermione shook her head in agreement.  She knew a little French, but hadn't understood anything Dawn had said.

"Did you get anything she said?" she asked, turning her head to look at her companion.

"The first part was 'son of a bitch', I think," Snape answered.  "He must like her.  I've seen him hex people's limbs off for insulting his mother."

"I wouldn't expect that from him.  I've heard that he killed his parents."

"It's not true.  Not entirely."

She glanced at him; he seemed disinclined to elaborate, but damned if she'd settle for less than the truth.

"Suffice to say, Miss Gr—Hermione, his father was not a good man.  Rather fond of beating him and his brother senseless.  That's why he's so good at healing – the Malfoy heir couldn't very well go out in public with two black eyes and a split lip.  His mother was a kind woman; she did what she could for them, but Malfoy Sr. was the king of his castle."

"How terrible..."

"Indeed."

"He has a brother?"

"Had.  Long dead now."

"That's awful."

"Such were the times."

"That doesn't disprove anything."

"His father killed his mother.  She was – how did he phrase it – 'too soft on the boys'.  Of course he made it look like an accident, but Lucius knew."

"How do you know all this?"

"When I was…in St. Mungo's, he visited me quite a bit.  He would speak to me for hours on end, sometimes.  I…couldn't physically respond, I was still too far away.  But I heard everything."

"Then…his father?"

"He did kill his father, the very same night he took the Mark.  Replaced him within the Inner Circle.  Not so much for ambition as for revenge."

"I…I can't imagine…"

"Be glad, Miss Granger, that you'll never have to."

There was a silence that weighed heavily on both of them.  It was impossible to ignore how his voice had gone flat and cold when he spoke of St. Mungo's.  There were still some deep, festering wounds within him, that much was obvious.  She didn't want to disturb them; the man had seen and experienced so much pain already.  But sometimes the only cure for a contaminated wound was to tear it open and let the infection drain out.  But not yet…not yet.  She couldn't claim to know him, but she was sure that if she started probing, he'd snap shut like an alligator's jaws.  And then he'd push her away and plunge himself into his work, and any and all chances for them to become something more than an odd pair of bookworms would be dashed.  

Instead of asking herself exactly what she really wanted of Snape, she posed a rather harmless question.

"I wonder what he did to get her so angry."

"Probably said something stupid and bigoted."

"Yes, he's good at that."

"Alarmingly proficient."

And then the conversation lulled once again.  He returned to his work on the dragon, and she picked up the crusted vessel that had been designated as hers.  She couldn't yet see what it was in the shape of; it was much dirtier and had a great deal of sediment built up on its surfaces.  She began to clean it as he and her University professor had taught her, with the picks and awls and brushes.

She didn't notice when he stopped his work, setting it in his lap to watch her.  She didn't notice anything but the fragile lines of the artifact, at least not until he spoke again.

"I'm going to check on him."

"Hm?  Oh.  Lucius."

"Yes."

"Don't let him hex you."

"I've my wand at the ready," he replied, an amused smirk gracing his face as he hauled himself to his feet.

"I can try to talk to Dawn, if he'd like."

"I'll ask him, although perhaps tomorrow when he cools down."

Hermione nodded and returned her attention to the challenge in front of her.  However, as she resumed her work, she felt his presence looming over her.  She didn't pause, though; she was not afraid of his scrutiny, not anymore.  And after a few long moments, he murmured, "Excellent technique, Miss Granger."  And then he turned and strode away.  

She thought it exceptionally strange that there were no voluminous black robes billowing behind him.  And, as she watched him knock carefully on the door of his cabin and then disappear inside, she whispered,

"Hermione." 

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            He expected Lucius to be angry.  He expected the blond man to be fuming, not just from the rejection (you rejected Lucius Malfoy at your own risk – he was not good at taking no for an answer), but also from the fact that Dawn was obviously not a pureblood and she'd insulted his mother, to boot.

            That was not what he found.

            Lucius was sitting on the floor, propped against the side of the bed.  One leg was bent and the other straight out, and he cradled his forehead with one hand.  Oh sweet Jesus.  He looked frighteningly close to some sort of breakdown.  Severus was not good with these sorts of things; he was always on the end that was being comforted, never the comforter himself.  He didn't know what to do or say.  In all likelihood he'd just make it worse.  But…he had to try, right?  Lucius had been there for him like some sort of twisted guardian angel these last few years.  He was bound to have to reciprocate once in a while.

            "All right, then?" he said softly, lowering himself down onto the floor across from his pale-haired friend.

            "Why do I always _do_ that, Severus?"

            "Do what?"

            "Ruin possibilities."

            Severus's eyebrows nearly lost themselves in his hairline.  _Possibilities_?  This did not sound like Lucius at all.  Lucius, the champion of one-night stands, the master of friendless fucking, the very spirit of forty-three year old bachelorhood?  He had been under the impression that Lucius liked things the way they were.  Apparently not.

           "That woman?  A possibility?" he asked, careful to keep the surprise and slight disdain out of his voice.

            "I know it sounds crazy, but…I'm so attracted to her!"

            "That is not grounds for a serious relationship."

            "No, but Merlin's balls, it's something to go on."

            "You said to me three days ago that you thought she was loud, obnoxious, and distinctly unrefined."

            "She is."

            Severus spread his hands, as if to say 'There you have it.'  But Lucius shook his head.

            "That's exactly the point, Severus."

            "I'm not following."

            "Severus…there aren't many people out there who aren't afraid of me."

            "Me either."

            "How many people do you think would stand up to me like that?"

            "Not many.  What did she call you, anyway?"

            "Oh.  She told me to go get fucked up the ass by the Greeks."

            "Creative.  And very plausible, given our location."

            "I suppose.  But do you see what I mean?"

            "In a way."

            Lucius didn't respond, which left Severus to really think about what had been said.  The other man did have a point; very often women were so spineless and pliant towards him that it was mind-numbingly boring to do anything with them other than have sex.  The sex was good but impersonal.  There were limits to the level of fulfillment one could achieve when the person you were sleeping with bored you to tears most of the time.

            He'd had a brief fling with an intriguing Muggle woman when he'd gone home to Russia.  He had to admit it had been very, very nice to be with someone who had no idea what his past consisted of and thought the Dark Mark was some kind of esoteric tattoo.  She had been undeniably feisty, and also quite intelligent – they had discussed Plato, argued fiercely over Machiavelli and Nietzsche, and forayed into topics that only someone with a very strong background in science could hope to understand.  Being with her, regardless of however short-lived the tempestuous relationship was, had made him feel young and worthwhile.  And while he was truly neither, it had been just what he needed.

            "Well, if you really want to pursue her--"

            "Oh yes, Eros, do bestow your divine knowledge of love upon me."

            "You're not exactly a master of it yourself, you know."

            Lucius snorted, crossing his arms sullenly.

            "I was only going to say that you might have to sacrifice your dignity.  She doesn't seem the type to fall back into your arms just because of your good looks."  Severus tried to keep the sarcasm out of his tone, but didn't succeed very well.  Lucius shot him an unappreciative look, but quickly relapsed into his morose expression.

            "I've more work to do," Severus said, hauling himself to his feet.  "I interrupted a lesson with Miss Granger."

            Lucius seemed to perk up slightly for some reason.

            "You know, Severus, she's not a little girl anymore.  Maybe you should call her by her first name."

            "I should, but it is difficult to break the habit of calling her by her surname."

            "Perhaps you should try harder."

            "What does it matter to you, anyway?" Severus said, frowning.

            "Forget it, just leave me to my brooding."

            "If you insist," the dark-haired man shrugged, turning to leave.  He was halfway out the door when Lucius spoke again.

            "Oh!  Severus, I forgot to tell you.  Draco is visiting in a week or so."

            Severus Snape sighed audibly.

"Heaven help us."

And when he turned to give Lucius one last glance, the blond man was smiling.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Early that evening, Hermione dared to knock on the door of Dawn's cabin.  She answered quickly, pulling the door open rather savagely.  Uh oh…still angry.  But a moment later her steely expression melted into one of exhausted resignation.

"It's just you, Hermione.  Sorry.  Come in."

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked timidly, following the other witch to a set of very comfortable looking chairs.

"From the booze?  Fine.  Had some hangover concoction."

"Ah, yes, Severus's potions are amazing."

"Severus?  The tall, dark-haired guy?"

"Yes."

"Hm.  I guess you have to be special to call him by his first name, because he told us to just call him Snape.  You and that blond-haired dipshit are the only ones that address him as anything else."  Dawn glanced over at her company, and finding a cryptic look on her face, attempted to apologize.  "I mean, I'm sorry if you like that asswipe…"

"No, no, don't worry about it.  I actually don't like him at all."

"Did he try to seduce you?"

"No.  He tried to kill some of my friends."

Dawn's eyes widened, but that was her only reaction.  The war hadn't just been waged on European soil; American factions of Death Eaters had existed, and they had no trouble making themselves known.  And as America had a much smaller wizarding population than Europe, or even just Britain alone, the battles had been much bloodier – and much more personal – than they had been across the ocean.  She'd seen good men die – and kill mercilessly.  It was a funny thing about war; it could either bring out the best in a man, or the worst, and the line between them was very, very thin.

"What's his story, then?" she found herself asking, curious about Lucius in spite of her anger towards him.

"Well, he's a pureblood, one of the oldest wizarding families in the world.  He was an advocate of…purification, if you know what I mean.  He was one of the worst of Voldemort's minions."

"Then why is he not in prison?"

"Well, Voldemort decided he wanted to use his son for a sacrifice, and he wasn't too happy about it.  He defected and came to our side.  He helped us destroy Voldemort."

"Is he really on our side, though?  Or is it just a matter of what benefits him the most?"

"I…I don't know.  I don't trust him, but I think he's changed."

"How can you tell?"

"He used to call me mudblood."

Dawn's face bloomed with horror; mudblood was just as bad a curse in America as it was in Britain.

"Used to?"

"He doesn't anymore.  I don't feel like he looks down on me as much.  I think he's made a real effort to change.  So whatever he said to you…"

"I may have overreacted, but it still doesn't excuse his behavior."

"I'm sure you're right."

They sat in a not entirely comfortable silence, avoiding each other's eyes.  Hermione could not help but feel overwhelmed by Dawn's mannerisms; she had a very strong personality, and Hermione couldn't read her at all.  People like that tended to make her uneasy.

"The hell with it.  Let's go shopping."

"What?" was all Hermione could manage.

"Shopping always makes me feel better, and I can definitely use some new clothes.  And besides, my sister used to say I was a spoiled little bitch.  I might as well live up to the slander."

"Um…ah…all right," Hermione agreed.  She wasn't usually one to find solace in shopping – that's what books were for – but it couldn't hurt her.  That, and it would help her get closer to Dawn.

"Do you want to change or anything?"

"No, I think I'm fine like this."

"Want to grab a bag?"

"Oh, that might be a good idea.  I'll be right back."

And so the two women set out for a night of shopping.  Unfortunately, Hermione didn't think to ask exactly what kind of shopping they were about to embark on until they were approaching the boutiques.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"You _cannot_ be serious."

"Why not? They're nice."

"I might as well not wear any underwear at all!" Hermione cried, ignoring the pair of purple lace crotchless panties Dawn was holding out to her.

"Sweetie, white cotton panties are ok up until the age of sixteen, but after that you need a little variety!"

"I don't want variety!"

"Oh come on, you're not as sweet and innocent as you pretend to be.  Stop being such a schoolgirl.  Unless that's what Snape likes…"

"WHAT?!"

"You two are practically joined at the hip.  I noticed when you two snuck off last night."

"We didn't do anything!"

"Suuuure you didn't."

"There's nothing between us!  We're just friends!" Hermione sputtered, turning redder than the thong hanging on the rack next to them.

"Right, and your red-faced, panicky denial is sure to convince me of that."

"I'm _serious_!" Hermione almost screamed.  "He was my Professor once, you know!  That would just be weird!"

"Your professor?!  NO WONDER YOU WEAR SCHOOLGIRL UNDERWEAR!  IT'S PERFECT!"

"I AM NOT SLEEPING WITH HIM!"

"I BET YOU WERE SCREWING HIM BEFORE YOU EVEN GRADUATED, YOU DIRTY LITTLE BITCH!" Dawn shot back gleefully.  Hermione had quickly learned that when the American used profanity, she didn't mean it in a malicious way, but this was just too much!

"I WAS NOT!  I'M NOT LIKE THAT!  _HE'S_ NOT LIKE THAT!"

"IT'S ALWAYS THE QUIET ONES!"

"LADIES!" a third voice interrupted them.  They both turned to look at whoever had jumped in, and found themselves staring at a somewhat irate salesperson.

"Yes?" Dawn asked, as if nothing was amiss.  Hermione could only stare at her with her mouth hanging open; she acted as if they _hadn't_ just been having a perfectly ridiculous shouting match in the middle of a lingerie store.

"If you would _kindly_ bring your purchases to the register and _exit_ the store," the salesman said in clipped, angry tones.

Dawn's hands went to her hips and all of a sudden she seemed to ooze attitude.  She dropped the lacy item of debate back onto the display, turned her nose up, and said,

"We didn't see anything we liked anyway."

And with that, she grabbed Hermione by the wrist and pulled her out of the boutique.

"What…I can't believe you…!" she stammered when they were back out in the cool night air.

"Are you hungry?" was all Dawn said.

"I…you…yes," she said, giving up all hope of ever understanding the other woman.

"Good, there's a nice little bistro a few blocks down."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Hermione felt the need to speak again.

"I swear there's really nothing between Severus and I but friendship."

Dawn shrugged but waggled her eyebrows suggestively.  She looked like she was about to say something, but a loud sound interrupted her.

"What is that?" Hermione asked, looking confused.

"It sounds like a cell phone.  Is it yours?"

Hermione frowned and lifted her bag to her ear.  It _was_ her phone.  Who on earth would be calling her now?  She pulled the shrilling phone out of the bag and looked at the display in confusion; she didn't recognize the number.  She flipped the device open, put it to her ear, and spoke hesitantly.

"Hello?"

"Hermione?  I can't believe I got you!  It's Anatole."

Redone – I'm not a native speaker of Russian, I'm just going on what little of it I learned in order to be able to communicate with a friend of mine's parents and housekeeper.  I could be wrong ::shrugs::  Either that or it could be a case of me spelling it incorrectly – I spelled it phonetically, based on how I learned to say it, but that doesn't mean it's right, lol.  And if it's neither of those, well, maybe I should stick to languages I actually sort of know.  In any case, I took it out.  I don't want to misrepresent ;)

Fleur – Thanks for the correction.  I did take French for 5 years, although I only had a decent teacher for 3 of them.  I tend to mix up grammar points like that one.  In fact, when dealing with French, I go more by the sound of it than the rules (because, to be honest, I forgot half of them, lol).  Usually I know what looks and sounds right in a sentence, but sometimes it backfires on me.  I guess it's like any other language – they all have their quirks.  If you email me (Lunachik7@att.net) perhaps you can help me with whatever Francais I might write into the story in the future ^_^

Azure, Luna Writer – The last sentence was "It's not that complicated.  We need love."

Minerva of Tortall – Thanks for the review, and yay for NJ!  I'm from NJ too, but I go to school in PA, and I get so tired of the Jersey bashing!  New Jersey is so far from being the "Armpit of the Nation" as some people (who have never been there) seem to think.  It's the best kept secret in the USA.  What part of Jersey are you from?  I'm from central, near the shore.  IM me sometime, my sn is in my profile.

Everyone else – thanks for your reviews!  Hope this chapter amuses you.


	5. Chapter 5

"There he is," Hermione said softly, nudging her companion.  Dawn, never one for subtlety, turned her head and looked right at him.  Her eyebrows went up, and she grinned.

            "He's definitely a hottie.  Damn, Hermione.  You get these cute Greek guys and all I get is Mr. Pureblood Crackhead…"

            "Lucius isn't unattractive."

            "Yeah, he has a pretty face…and a decent body, I suppose.  But he has all the personality of a Mandrake root."

            "You're just saying that because you're still mad.  I think you held your liquor much better than he did that night.  You slept with him for a reason," Hermione replied, unable to resist a few barbs to pay Dawn back for the scene in the lingerie store.

            An annoyed look crossed Dawn's face for about three seconds…and then she grinned.

            "I knew you had it in you, Hermione.  Oh, excuse me, perhaps _Snape has been in you."_

            "Don't be disgusting," she replied, straightening her hair as Anatole spotted them and began to head over.

"Hey," Anatole said, smiling sheepishly as he approached Hermione.  True to his word, he'd brought a friend to occupy Dawn.  Hermione could tell that she approved, because she grabbed Anatole's friend even as Anatole introduced him.

"This is my good friend Nick," he said.

"Well Nick and I will go get better acquainted," Dawn said, latching onto the confused-looking man's arm.  "Have fun, kids!"

"Wow," Anatole said, smirking as Nick threw him a look that clearly said both 'What have you gotten me into?' and 'Help!'.

"Yes, she's a bit overpowering when you first meet her," Hermione agreed, feeling a surge of pity for Nick.

"I'm sure he'll be fine.  You look amazing, Hermione."

Hermione blushed furiously.

"Thank you.  You do, too, of course."

Anatole pulled out her chair for her, pushed it in once she'd made herself comfortable, and then took a seat across from her.

"I know you said you'd call me," he began, fidgeting with the fancily folded napkin.  "But to be honest, Hermione…" he said, lifting his brown eyes to meet hers, "I couldn't stop thinking about you after the train ride."

Hermione's blush renewed itself and she used the excuse of arranging her silverware to avoid his intense gaze.

"I meant to call you," she murmured.  "I just got so caught up with things at work."

"It's all right," he said, smiling.  "I thought it might be worth a try to call, and look what happened!  I got you."

"Yes, you're very lucky you called when you did.  This is the first time I've been out since I arrived."

"No!" Anatole said, feigning horror as he had on the train.  "You're a workaholic, Hermione."

"Am not," she replied lamely.  She heard Harry and Ron laughing at her in the back of her mind, and gave in to the truth.  "All right, so I am.  I can't help it.  When something interests me, I get very absorbed."

"Well," Anatole concluded, his voice lowering in a disconcertingly sexy way, "we'll just have to redirect your interest, won't we?"

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            "I don't know what happened," Anatole said, looking a bit scared.  "She was fine, laughing, and then all of a sudden she just started crying."

            Dawn looked over at Hermione, who was sitting on the curb and sniffling with her arms around her knees.  Nick was clumsily trying to console her, but he was long gone from too much ouzo and didn't manage to do much but pat her on the back and mumble incoherently.

            "Did she have a lot to drink?" Dawn asked.

            "Well, I don't know what's a lot for her."

            "She's a stick compared to me.  And you said she'd never had ouzo before, right?"

            "Yes."

            "That's probably all it is.  An alcohol-induced moodswing."

            "I hope so," Anatole replied anxiously.  "We were having such a good time.  I hope it wasn't anything I said or did."

            "I doubt it," Dawn said, shaking her head.  "She looked very happy with you."

            Anatole turned his head to look at the American woman.  She had come on very strong at the beginning, but once he'd gotten used to her frank mannerisms he found himself appreciating her more and more.

            "How was Nick?" he asked, running a hand through his hair and loosening his sweaty shirt.

            "He's a good guy," she answered, smiling slightly.  "I don't think he knows what to make of me, though."

            "Well, you better be thankful that he's trashed.  He always used to say that the day he found a woman that could out-drink him was the day he'd give up bachelorhood."

            Dawn chuckled.

            "You have no idea how many drunken marriage proposals I've gotten.  With the state he's in, he probably won't even remember the club."

            Anatole nodded.  His ears were ringing slightly from the sheer volume of the music inside the club.  He could still hear the bass throbbing through the walls from behind them.

            "I really wish I knew how to comfort her," he said, staring at Hermione's hunched figure.

            "It wasn't you, Anatole.  Don't worry about it.  I'll take her home.  She'll feel better in the morning, I hope."

            "Tell her to call me.  And that I'm sorry."

            "I will.  Thanks for everything.  Nick, too."

            "Are you sure you don't need a ride or anything?"

            "We'll be fine, but thank you."

            Anatole nodded and set about the task of getting a very smashed and therefore very rambunctious Nick into the car.  Dawn got Hermione on her feet and waved back at Anatole as they began a slow walk towards the beachfront.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            "I need to sit down," Hermione whispered.

            "We're almost there."

            "I know, but I just need…"

            "All right, here's a bench," Dawn said, releasing her hold on Hermione and sitting down next to her.  "Have a tissue, sweets."

            Hermione took it and blotted at the tear tracks on her face.

            "I…I didn't mean to d-do that," she said, hiccupping slightly.  "It's just…we were in the club, and dancing, and having so much fun…and I thought of this time…this time I took Ron to a club…"

            A fresh wave of tears began.

            "Who's Ron?" Dawn asked sympathetically, rubbing her back.

            "He…was one of my best friends.  And…I g-guess you could say he was my first love."

            "Oh no…was?"

            "Y-yes.  He's dead."

            "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

            "It's all right.  It was his decision.  I w-won't dishonor it by wishing he hadn't done it."

            "What did he do?" Dawn asked, continuing her back-rub.

            "H-he…when Voldemort took Harry prisoner…"

            "Harry Potter?" Dawn couldn't help interrupting incredulously.

            Hermione nodded, sniffling.

            "Voldemort captured him, and s-said that if Dumbledore relinquished Hogwarts to the Death Eaters, he would let Harry go.  And as much as Dumbledore loves Harry…as much as we all did…we couldn't.  We just couldn't save him.  We knew that Harry wouldn't have wanted us to give everything up just to save his life."

            Dawn nodded sadly; she'd experienced similar situations and knew the pain that came from having to make such horrible sacrifices.

            "Ron…he…he was so angry when they decided to do nothing.  He couldn't believe we were just going to let Harry die.  He…he had a terrible temper sometimes.  He wanted to save him.  I tried to explain it to him…to convince him…b-but he wouldn't listen.  That night he snuck out and went to save Harry."

            "And did he?"

            "He did.  I'll never figure out how he did it.  He made it past dozens of Death Eaters…right into where Harry was being held.  He freed Harry…and…and then…he took his place."

            "Couldn't they have escaped together?"

            "Ron wanted Harry to have enough time to get back to Hogwarts.  He was hurt and couldn't move very fast.  Ron figured that if Voldemort didn't know his prisoner had escaped until morning, Harry would have time to get to safety, and everyone at Hogwarts would have time to prepare for the battle.  Of course Harry refused to leave him there, but Ron would hear none of it.  He…he actually put Harry under the Imperius curse.  Normally Harry could fight it off, but he was weakened, from being injured, so he had no choice but to do what Ron wanted and go back to Hogwarts."

            "He must have hated that."

            "I've n-never heard so many curses come out of Harry's mouth.  He was furious."

            "And when morning came?"

            "When morning came, Voldemort saw that Harry had escaped.  He ordered an immediate strike on Hogwarts.  He…he brought Ron along.  He killed him right in front of us.  And…and n-not with th-the Killing C-curse either…" Hermione broke off, her tears turning into sobs.

            "That's awful, Hermione," Dawn said softly, handing her another tissue.

            "I kn-know.  B-but we w-won.  All because of R-Ron."

            "He was very noble.  And very heroic."

            "I m-miss him."

            "You always will."

            Hermione nodded and then blew her nose loudly.

            "So what about you?" she said, sniffling.  "What was your first love like?"

            "He was amazing."

            "Then why aren't you still with him?"

            "He cheated on me."

            "No!  Was she ugly?"

            "Completely busted."

            "Busted?" Hermione asked, unfamiliar with the American slang.

            "Yes, busted.  As in just got busted in the face."

            Hermione giggled through her slowly abating tears.

            "Do you still talk to him?"

            "Every now and then.  He wanted to get back together not long after that, but I turned him down.  He acts like I'm his own personal welcome mat or something.  He calls me once in a while and seems to think that time is enough to make me forget."

            "There will never be enough time for that," Hermione said softly.

            "Nope, never."

            Hermione nodded and took yet another Kleenex.

            A moment later, Dawn stood and said,

            "Enough of this feminine bonding crap.  Let's go home."

            Hermione sniffled and stood quietly, falling into step next to her.  Dawn could tell that she was still unsettled.

            "I'll tell you what," she said, smirking to herself.  "What do you know about practical jokes?"

           "I'm closely acquainted with the Weasley twins.  I've seen it all, I think," Hermione replied, smiling faintly.

            "Well then, what do you say to sneaking into the Brit cabin and doing some damage?"

            "Like what?"  Hermione looked slightly alarmed.

            "Don't worry, we won't do anything to Snape.  Just Lucius.  Deal?"

            "Deal."

            Dawn looped her arm through Hermione's and they set off for the site.  It was time to determine whether or not putting a sleeping person's hand in water actually made them wet the bed.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            Anatole got back into his car and laid his head on the steering wheel for a moment.  He'd finally gotten Nick into bed.  It had been a struggle.  Nick was easily distracted as it was, but when he drank too much, he could be the poster child for ADHD.

            The night hadn't gone as he had wanted it to.  What he had said to Hermione was true.  After the train ride, he really couldn't stop thinking about her.  He'd always thought that English accents were classy and sexy, but he'd never encountered the accent paired with a girl as striking as Hermione.  Everything about her stood out; her name, her demeanor, her subtle beauty.  She was so…natural.

            He longed to spend more time with her.  She was everything he hoped she'd be.  Dinner had been wonderful.  They'd completely forgotten to eat their salads because they were so absorbed in conversation.  When the restaurant's violinist had come to their table, she knew exactly what he was playing.  There seemed no boundary to her intellect, and yet she wasn't opinionated or arrogant about it.  He had always found it incredibly appealing when a woman knew just how smart she was but never showed off.

            The club had shown him that she also wasn't as shy as she seemed.  She was secure with herself.  And she sure knew how to dance.  But it had also shown him that there were plenty of things about her that he didn't know.  She had artfully avoided all his questions about her job and her life back in England; she was always deflecting the inquiries back onto him, and he had been more than happy to tell her all about his life.  But now there was an imbalance; she knew almost everything about him, but all he knew about her was that her name was Hermione Granger and she was from England and her parents were dentists.

            What was Hermione hiding?  What had made her emotions so volatile?  Where did she work, and why wouldn't her cell phone function there?  With a sigh, Anatole put the key in the ignition and started the car.  He reached up to adjust the rear-view mirror, and as he did, caught a glimpse of two people walking along the beachfront.

            Dawn and Hermione.

            He frowned to himself.  Nick lived right along the coast, perhaps three miles from the club.  If he had known this was the direction their companions were heading, he would have insisted on giving them a ride.

            He opened the door and got out, fully intending to call to them and ask them once again if they wanted a ride.  But the second he opened his mouth, they made a slight left turn and disappeared.  Simply disappeared.

            "Wha…?" he said out loud, blinking at the spot the two women had previously occupied.  Maybe it had been an optical illusion.  Maybe they'd gone down a hill and he simply couldn't see them anymore.  He cautiously walked across the wide boulevard.  The closer he got to the beach, the more sick and nervous he felt.  His stomach dropped and churned when he stepped up onto the sidewalk on the other side.  His heart began to pound and his hands to shake.  The more he tried to force himself to set foot on the sand, the more nervous and afraid he felt.  Every fiber of his being was telling him to flee, to go home and forget about this place.

            He made one last attempt to move closer, but as he did, his heart fluttered painfully in his chest and he felt beads of sweat dripping down his back.  He couldn't do it.  He couldn't.

            He tried to cross the street again, but his legs felt like gelatin.  He sat on the curb, breathing hard, watching his hands as they shook.  The unnerving sensation still tingled in the back of his brain, and as he tried to collect himself, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.  He couldn't stay here any longer.  He had to get away.

            Anatole ran back across the street and practically dove into his car.  He fumbled with the keys for only a moment before turning it on.  He pulled out of his spot and sped away without looking back.

            *                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

            _Lilith__ was wrenched out of her sleep very suddenly, as if someone had lit a firecracker next to her bed.  She was confused and disoriented, but she understood one thing well enough; there was a terrible stench invading her senses.  It smelled like…rancid milk, rotting flesh…every foul stench she had ever experienced all rolled into one._

_            She tried to sit up, but hit something solid.  Then a low, roiling growl reached her ears, and she knew she was in trouble.  Instinctively she scooted backwards in the sand, kicking it up as hard as she could, hoping she could get some of it in the creature's eyes.  It roared and thrashed when she succeeded, and she reached for her wand.  She could stun it and then run away, and everything would be all right._

_            A terrible pain seared across her arm as she lifted it to cast the spell.  She cried out and dropped her wand reflexively.  Blood rushed from the wound, spilling onto the sand in small rivulets.  She clutched her arm to her body as tears welled in her eyes.  The smell of blood would only craze the creature further.  Without her wand, she was as good as dead._

_            It growled as it stalked; a low, guttural, satisfied sound.  Slowly, it crept over her, its tremendous clawed paws on either side of her body.  She lay perfectly still, trying not to show any fear even though she knew it could smell it.  A rough tongue lapped at her bleeding arm, and a moment later a cold, wet nose brushed against her jaw._

_            She dared to open her eyes for a moment, wondering if she'd mistaken an everyday creature for one of darkness.  But there was no questioning what it was; a pair of shockingly amber eyes stared back at her from a fur-covered, blood streaked face.  A werewolf.  Of course it would be a werewolf.  The moon was full._

_            It seemed almost to purr as she looked at it.  She didn't know why it was delaying.  That was what frightened her the most.  Every werewolf attack she'd ever heard of had been quick and brutal, executed with animalistic efficiency.  But this one was taking its time, sniffing her, perusing her as if she were some product for sale in the market.  It made that purring sound again and moved its paw.  She felt the roughened pad against her cheek and the sting of the claws as it pushed, forcing her head to the side and revealing her neck._

_            A sob escaped her as she struggled.  It was fruitless; the wolf's paw alone was nearly the size of her head.  It snorted, and she felt its hot, sour breath on her neck.  Why was it taking so long?  Why wouldn't it just—_

_            At that moment it did.  She screamed as its jagged teeth found purchase in the tender flesh of her neck.  Lilith had never felt so much pain in her entire life.  She felt like its teeth would slice clean through her._

_            Feebly, she tried to push it away.  She clawed at its chest, but couldn't do any damage through the thick pelt.  She became dizzy as blood spurted from her wounds.  Another hot stab of pain registered as it raked its claws across her shoulder and chest._

_            The scent of blood was thick in the ocean air.  Her vision grew blurry, and the round marble of the moon loomed hazily above.  She was too weak to struggle now, and hadn't the breath to scream.  _

_As she fell silent, the wolf raised its gored muzzle and howled._

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Hermione woke on the beach in hysterics.  She must have screamed, and loudly; more than half of the excavators were either grouped around her or standing by their cabins in their nightclothes.

"Out of the way!  Out of the freaking way!" she heard Dawn exclaim as she pushed her way through the crowd.  A moment later she was on her knees beside Hermione.  She opened her arms, and Hermione moved into them gladly, her hands latching onto the sleeves of Dawn's nightshirt.

"Was it about Ron?" Dawn whispered, rocking her gently.

Hermione shook her head, unable to form words.

"Jesus…" Lucius said flatly, crouching down across from Dawn.  There was sweat on his brow and his hands shook slightly.  "It sounded like someone was being murdered out here."

"Just a nightmare," Dawn replied, her annoyance at him temporarily overpowered by her concern for Hermione.

"No!" Hermione said suddenly, pulling away from Dawn.  "Someone was killed out here.  Right here.  There's blood…so much blood…"  She squirmed away from that spot on the sand, tears spilling down her face.

A moment later Snape was there, having weaved his lean frame through the crowd noiselessly.

"Here," he said as he knelt.  "This will calm her down."  There was a small vial in his hand.  He uncapped it as he moved slowly toward her, not wishing to startle her with any sudden movements.

"S-severus?" she whispered.

"Yes, Hermione, it's me," he replied soothingly.  "I need you to drink this."

"A potion?"

"Yes, it will calm you.  You'll feel better, I promise."

She nodded, blinking back tears, and allowed him to press the vial gently to her lips.  A few minutes later she had calmed significantly.  She leaned heavily on Snape, one hand wound into the fabric of his shirt.  Her eyes had become glassy and as the crowd watched, seemingly mesmerized, her sobs quieted to small gasps and hiccups.

"Now let's get you back to bed," he said resolutely, gathering her into his arms and standing.  Without another word, Severus walked toward the cabins with Hermione in tow.  The others parted to allow him to pass, and then slowly scattered back to their own cabins, murmuring amongst themselves.

Only Lucius and Dawn remained sitting quietly on the sand, both lost in their own thoughts.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

I'm going to explode if someone doesn't say something soon.  I hate awkward silences; hate them, hate them, hate them.  I'd rather someone curse my name and my bloodline using a worldwide Sonorus charm than simply give me the silent treatment.

That's exactly what she's doing.  At least I think it is.  If she didn't want to talk to me, she would have left, right?  But she hasn't; she's just sitting there staring at the water and rubbing one foot nervously in the sand.

I _want to say something.  But I don't know what to say to make things right.  So I can only sit here and stubbornly refuse to give in to the discomfort of this tension._

I'm on the verge of grinding my perfect teeth when she finally speaks.

"You looked a little frightened, just now."

My jaw clenches even tighter.  I was raised never to admit to fear.  I realize now how ridiculous that is, but I am still loath to show weakness in any way.  But I remember what Severus said; I might have to sacrifice my dignity.  I doubt she'd judge me negatively if I confessed to my anxiety.  A bitter little chuckle escapes my throat.  Who could blame me for my fears after the life that I have led?

"A…a little," I reply, swallowing heavily.  I can't stand confiding in people.  It makes me feel somehow…insufficient.

She lifts her eyes to look at me, but does not speak.  She seems to know that I'm not finished.  I can't fathom how a woman so quick to anger a day ago can be so patient and tolerant now.

I take a breath, and then attempt to make my dread sound reasonable.

"You see, I…well, I'm sure you know I…serviced Voldemort at one point."

She nods, but her expression does not change.  There is no condemnation in her eyes.  For some reason this gives me a strange sort of boost, and the words rush out of me with more readiness than I have ever shown to anyone, save for poor vegetative Severus.

"You know the sort of things the Death Eaters did.  We did horrible deeds to innocent people.  Of course such things are easy to say in hindsight, when one is not so caught up in fanaticism…in bloodlust."

She nods again.  Her eyes are still clear.  Her willingness to listen – just listen – is making me want to get down on my knees and worship her.

"The only thing worse than what we did to those people…is what we did to traitors.  I was just as eager as the others…until I became one of those traitors.  I don't regret deserting.  I don't regret it at all.  But it made life that much more dangerous.  Before, I was guaranteed protection from the Dark Lord because I was at his side.  Any harm that came to me would be my own fault; if I botched something, there was reason to punish me.  But after that, I was on the other side.  There was no longer the need of a reason to hurt me or those close to me.  In fact, I was an especially alluring target.  And the worst part was that I _knew_ what they would do to me and to Draco – my son – if we were caught."

I pause for breath.  This is not easy to say to her, regardless of the fact that she is radiating understanding rather than hatred or disgust.

            "I sometimes have this nightmare.  I dream that I'm bound to a stone altar.  I'm naked and blindfolded.  I can't see anything, but I can hear and smell and _feel_.  I can hear screams – usually they're Draco's.  I can smell blood and burning flesh.  I can feel the prickle of magic on my skin and I sense them leering at me, waiting and wanting to tear my flesh from the bone.  I…I won't tell you all of it.  It's horrible.  But just now…I was just falling back to sleep…" I pause, giving her a significant look to let her know that I know it was her that had the smart-assed idea of putting my hand in water.  "And she started screaming.  I woke up, but I was tangled in the sheets and it was pitch black because Severus cast a darkening charm.  I thought the dream was actually happening…I thought I was bound and blindfolded on that altar."

            She simply nods slowly and thoughtfully when I finish.  I lean back on my elbows and look up at the stars; anywhere but at her.  I feel strange to have told her such personal things.  There is an emptiness in my gut that aches with catharsis.  I feel better, but at the same time I feel worse.

            When I finally become annoyed with her silence, I look over.  She has lain down in the sand with her hands linked behind her head.  Even though I am in a state of emotional retardation and still very much subject to her wrath, I can't help but notice how tantalizing her breasts look in the white ribbed tank top she's wearing.

            I do actually grind my teeth this time.  Is that all I can think about?  I like to think that I possess a fair amount of self-control.  Not since I was sixteen has my mind wandered so often to sex.  I bloody well hope no one at this site can read minds; they'll think I'm some sort of pervert.

            It seems that she simply has that effect on me.  I can hardly look at her without my brain supplying some lurid image straight out of a kama sutra book.  I'm forty-three years old, forty-four in three months time.  I'm supposed to be calming down at this age, aren't I?

            "Did my trick work?" she asks suddenly.  It takes me a moment to realize what she's talking about, but when I do, I give her a slight lopsided smile.

            "Almost."

            "Almost?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

            "Well, I was in the middle of the 'going to the loo' dream, just about to let loose, when I remembered that I wasn't at the Manor."

            "Curses.  Foiled," she says with the faintest trace of a grin.

            "Foiled, indeed.  But be content that you _nearly made Lucius Malfoy wet his bed."_

            "Now there's a headline," she says, smiling genuinely this time.  "'Angry Witch Causes Lucius Malfoy to Lose All Control of his Bladder.'"

            "So very flattering.  I'm sure the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly would make it their cover story, and I would go down in history as the face of wizardly incontinence.  I could even start a club.  Not only am I the president, but also a client."

            She chuckles softly, and then falls silent.  Suddenly, she's close to me, her lips against my ear.

            "We're all lucky, then, that the face of wizardly incontinence is a gorgeous one."

            And as quickly as she moved in, she is on her feet and off in the direction of the cabins.  I want so badly to follow her, to tackle her down in the sand and ravish her until she can't even form words.  But by time I make my limbs work, she is already in her cabin.

            I lay on the sand, my mind reeling with everything that has happened.  There have been too many extremes tonight; anger, fright, honesty, confusion, desire…

            I wish only to sleep now, but I know Severus is staying with Hermione in her cabin.  I don't want anymore nightmares, but I doubt Severus would appreciate me rooting through his things in search of a Dreamless Sleep potion.  So I'll just sit here and watch the blackness leach out of the sky, forcing myself to ignore all the things I should be thinking about. 


	6. Chapter 6

Severus watched her sleep.  She looked too perfect in her potion-aided slumber, like an actress in a Muggle movie whom you knew was not really asleep.  Her hair was arranged in flowing corkscrews over the pillow.  Her lips were parted slightly, pink and full.  Her face was a mask of tranquility, her eyes still beneath lush eyelashes.

            Where had this siren come from?  She couldn't be that mousy, pouf-haired little girl that had walked into his classroom over a decade ago.  He hadn't liked that girl, not one bit.  But this…this _woman…he couldn't stop himself from liking her.  Caring for her.  Even…wanting her?_

            Severus abolished the thought from his mind.  Want her he might, but it wasn't any different from desiring any other young, nubile girl.  And what young, nubile girl would desire him in return, unless, of course, she was in desperate need of money?

            He sighed and reached out to touch a stray curl.  A woman's hair had to be one of the most wonderful things on earth, both to touch and to smell.  Hermione's was soft and velvety on the rough pads of his fingers.  It was like stroking a swatch of silk.

            He released the curl and it sprung back into place.  He should have left her after putting her back to bed.  No doubt she would find it strange that he sat and watched her, like some cold, calculating voyeur.  

She was beautiful.  How was it that Potter had never courted her?  The brat had always had a penchant for pretty girls; first the exotic beauty of Cho Chang, and then the striking looks of Ginny Weasley.  But why not Hermione?

Even as he thought it, Severus prickled with distaste.  It wasn't that he disliked Potter; no, he could stand him.  He'd met people a great deal worse.  But the very thought of Potter and Hermione together made a scowl bloom on his face.

Someone like Harry Potter could never truly appreciate a woman like Hermione.  There were endless depths of her intellect that would be left barren, unexplored, if she wound up with someone like Potter.  So much wonderful rumination that would be lost or drowned out by talk of Quidditch and much more trivial things.  It was undeniable; if Hermione did not marry someone very much like herself, it would be a complete waste, both of her talents and her womanhood.  

It was said that opposites attract.  It was true enough; opposites DID attract.   He'd lived long enough to be able to confirm the veracity of that statement - but attract was all they did.  Opposites did not _last_.

It had become clear to him earlier that day.  He had thought that Lucius and Dawn's shaky relationship was doomed because they were opposites, and once the initial physical attraction wore off, there was nothing left.  But the more he watched them, the more he realized that they were _not opposites.  All he had to do was think back to his school days to remember a Lucius that had been just as mischievous, up-front, loud, and likeable as Dawn.  That Lucius did not always show his face; purebloods were sticklers for propriety.  He'd once told him that being home for the summer holidays was like living in a monastery.  But among friends, such masks were often dropped._

Even if Lucius was too programmed into his stiff behavior, that streak would never be extinguished.  There was mirth inside of him; mirth, and joy, a comedian and prankster, a merry drunkard…

So Lucius had his match, and a fine witch she was, if a little abrasive.  Severus could not claim to be much better.

He sighed and slouched in his chair.  It was so simple for everyone else.  Sure, there were plenty of fish in the sea, but they were all different.  How many women of his caliber – or men of Hermione's – really existed?  And what was the probability of ever encountering them?  And, if it did actually happen, who would really find him attractive?

He blew out a breath between his teeth.  This was why he tried not to think of things like love and soulmates and settling down.  Inevitably, numbers would start whizzing through his head, and the results always depressed him. 

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"I thought you were supposed to be smart.  Perhaps all the inbreeding has left you defective."

I didn't even hear her approach.  My instincts have become lamentable.  If it was still wartime I'd be dead.  I'm startled, but I prickle with anger when her words process.

"Have you come out here to just to insult me, or was there some other purpose?" I reply, trying to keep the ice out of my voice.

"I thought a pureblood might recognize an invitation when he was given one."

"An invitation to what?" I say irritably.  The exhaustion and her cheek are getting to me.

She's quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is soft and low.

"An invitation to come to bed."

My anger evaporates like denatured alcohol.  I crane my neck to look at her; she is just a dark silhouette against the early morning sky.

"You're too forgiving."

"Only for you, because you need it."

"I do not."

"I can see it, Lucius."

"See what?" I snap.  I'm becoming annoyed again.  I don't like the direction this conversation is heading.  I knew I shouldn't have told her anything personal.  She's using it against me now.

"I can see that the thing you want most in this world, more than power or money or love, is absolution."

"You can't give me that," I say bitterly.  Her words are so true that they rankle.  "All you can give me is pity."

"I don't pity you, Lucius.  Not for a second.  All those choices were yours, and therefore so were their consequences.  I don't pity a man who has invited adversity upon himself."

"Then why do you bother?  It's obvious that you're uncomfortable with my past.  Why waste your time with a man of questionable motives, morals, and appetites?"

"Is that really what you are?"

"I've changed, but I'm still Lucius Malfoy."

I hear her sigh.

"That's the trouble with you.  I don't think you ever knew who Lucius Malfoy was to begin with."

"Don't try to analyze me.  No one else has ever succeeded," I bite off caustically.  I'm about to say something else when I'm robbed of my breath.  She's kissing me.  What is _with_ this woman?  One moment she's insulting me, the next trying to dissect my mental health, the next forcing me to confide in her, and _then_ she decides to kiss me.  _Why_ do I care so much?  I shouldn't even put up with…

My thoughts dissolve into nothing as her tongue flickers lightly over my lower lip.  I can't stop myself from parting my lips to let her in.  "The Sex Switch" is activated.  That is how all my conflicts with Narcissa were solved.  We'd be in the middle of a terrible row when she'd get this devious look in her eyes.  It would be one thing if she had been an ugly woman, but she was far from it, and unless I was _furious_, she would easily seduce me out of my anger every single time.  It was in no way constructive, or a real way to solve problems, but it would leave both of us sated and too tired to fight.  It made me hate her in a way, I suppose.  That was her power over me.  Carnal power.

I don't want Dawn to have the same kind of power.  I don't want anyone to have _any_ power over me.  But my body betrays me.  I can already feel the endorphins surging through my veins, and a fierce desire flares as she gently thrusts her tongue into my mouth.  I respond, attempting to get a taste of her, but she pulls away so that my tongue only brushes the tip of hers before our lips separate.

I stare at her.  She is only two or three inches away.  Her eyes are deep and shadowed, her lips slack and glistening with shared saliva.  How am I supposed to resist?

I try anyway.

"I'm no good for you," I murmur, my voice husky with arousal.

"We're no good for each other," she replies in sultry tones.  "But that shouldn't stop us from having a good fuck now and then, should it?"

I think I twitch visibly at that statement.  That is _exactly_ what my body is aching for – a fuck.  But somehow her attitude rubs me the wrong way.  I don't want to be just a fuck.  I don't want her sleeping with other men.  I want her all to myself.  The thought of her with someone else, while being slightly erotic, makes a hot spear of anger rise in my gut.  I cringe.  Possessiveness is the first step towards love.

"What's the matter?" she says.

I stare at her for a moment longer before making my decision.  I have to take control of this situation.  I simply cannot play the passive.

I surge up, grabbing hold of her wrists and turning us so that she is pinned on her back in the sand.  She cries out, and when I look down at her, her eyes are squeezed shut.  I can feel the muscles and tendons in her forearms quivering.  It is then that I realize that I am gripping her more tightly than I meant to; I can feel her pulse pounding against my palms.

I let go instantly, mentally kicking myself for handling her so harshly.  A Sumo wrestler could have been gentler.  She pulls her arms to her chest and rubs her wrists.  I can see that my nails have left little crescent marks on the pale, fragile skin of her inner arm.  There will be bruises.

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean…"

"You did.  Why?"

I clench my fists in frustration.  I didn't want to have to say it out loud.  It sounds so foolish and weak out loud.  But now I must.

"I'm a greedy man, Dawn.  I admit it.  I don't want any other man touching you."

She contemplates for a moment, and then says,

"What about women?"

I feel my eyes grow huge.  Merlin's balls.  She's bisexual?  The thought of her with another woman is both incredibly exciting and terribly vexing.  I want to pull my own hair.  I'm well on my way to another nervous breakdown when I realize that she's laughing.  Just like she was that morning after.  Only this time, I'm glad to hear it.  

"I couldn't resist," she says through her giggles.  "You left yourself wide open for it."

"I don't appreciate you making _jokes_ out of my profound and earnest admissions of…of…"  I frown, unable to find a word to fit what I'm trying to say.

"Of selfishness?" she supplies.

"Selfishness in the name of…like," I finish lamely.  Annoyed at being unable to express myself, I revert back to the only way things make 100% sense to me.  "Je t'aime."

Her laughter has at last abated, and she reaches up to brush her fingertips lightly over my cheek.  I have never been more thankful for the language courses American witches and wizards are forced to take.

"Je sais," she murmurs, not looking at me.  "Je t'aime, aussi.  Mais…"

"Mais rien," I say, placing a finger against her lips.  A moment later I replace it with my lips in a gentle, chaste kiss.  "Allons-y."

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Severus had just dozed off on his cot-transfigured-from-the-uncomfortable-chair when an odd sensation came over him.  Everything seemed to tilt out of focus, even to his partially dormant senses.  His equilibrium was off, so when he opened his eyes he was completely disoriented.  He didn't know which way was up.

The room was pitch black, as per his own preferences.  There was a sound, a hum that he thought was present only in his own ears until he heard a thump and a shatter of glass.  What in the hell?  He forced himself to stand.  It took a moment, but he managed it with a few slight wobbles.

At first he thought it was his legs that were shaking.  But when he put his hand on the wall to steady himself, the wood was vibrating.  The _entire cabin_ was vibrating, as well as the ground beneath it.

Earthquake.

There was another shattering sound, much closer this time.  He actually felt shards of glass bite into his legs and feet.  Quickly he banished the darkening charm, and Hermione's still figure was illuminated.  She was still out cold on the bed.  Severus experienced a brief moment of pride in his sleeping draught; now he wouldn't be exaggerating when he said one could sleep through an earthquake under its effects.  Although, he thought, at the moment that might not exactly be a good thing.

He lunged forward and plucked Hermione out of the bed at just the right moment.  A mere second later, a cascade of items fell where her head had been, upset from the wooden shelf above the bed.

His balance was even worse with her in tow.  He staggered towards the door, trying to figure out the best course of action.  Didn't they say to stand in a doorframe during an earthquake?  Or was that a tornado?  Oh, how was he supposed to know?  Neither ever happened in England!

There was no way he could stay in the doorframe with a rather heavy, limp Hermione in his arms.  And if the quake got worse, there was the chance that the cabin could collapse.  And if it did, he'd rather not be inside it.  So it looked like outside was the best bet.

He fumbled for the doorknob, half-dropping Hermione, and when the door finally sprung open he was completely off balance.  He toppled to the floor and had the breath knocked out of him when Hermione flopped gracelessly on top of him.

Wheezing and dizzy, he gathered her into his arms again.  It was barely light out – the dark blue-grey of pre-dawn – and he strove for only one thing: to get away from the cabins.

"Over here!" someone shouted, and he followed the voice.  The tremors got worse as he dragged Hermione over the threshold of some quick-thinking wizard's wards.  Hands grabbed him and pulled him closer, and he held fast to Hermione, who was beginning to make small sounds of confusion.

There was a loud bang, and a flash of light that burned his retinas with its sudden brightness.  There was a screaming sound that he later recognized to be a combination of sirens and car alarms.  He cracked his eyes open and looked toward the muggle city.  It was sheer chaos.

But his eyes did not linger there for very long.  There was a great rumble, and the ground shifted beneath them.  Simultaneously, several people cast levitating charms and the group began to float a few inches above the heaving, restless earth.

A few moments later, there was a sound like a tree limb slowly breaking.  The sand to their left seemed to cave in upon itself as a fissure opened and rapidly spread, expanding like a spider-webbed windowpane.

"Oh, Merlin, no!" someone close to him whispered as the fissure inched towards the excavation site.  He felt very much the same.  There was a secret down there, somewhere, and the earth was going to swallow it up all over again before they got the chance to understand.

But it was the far row of cabins, one of which he had just stumbled out of minutes before, that were upset.  The fissure wormed beneath the entire row in a straight, almost perfect line; Severus was reminded of bits of meat speared on a wooden stick.  The cabins collapsed like houses made of cards, and inwardly he prayed that no one was inside any of them.

"Mighty Poseidon, have mercy!" that same person whispered, and he realized that it must be Cyrus.  Only a true Greek would direct his plea to Poseidon; most did not know that the ancient god of the sea was also the god of earthquakes.  He himself had not known until he'd come across it in some obscure reading.  Naturally, when he'd found out about the excavation and made his decision to join, he figured a little research was in order.  Severus glanced down at Hermione, who was awake but too disoriented to do much but lay against him with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands pressed over her ears.   She, too, had probably run straight to the library after she'd been asked to join.

The earth gave one final, violent heave, and then all was still.  But the sounds were still there; the muted swish of the ocean, the crackle of fire, the whine of sirens, and the sound of a great many people both lamenting that it had ever happened and exulting that the worst was over.

"We shouldn't stay here."  It was Dharvish who spoke this time.  "I've seen earthquakes at home.  There will be aftershocks, and the fissure will widen.  The whole beach could be swallowed up."

"Agreed," Cyrus said, dropping the wards.  "But we have to make sure that we have everyone first, and if not…"

He didn't finish the sentence.  They all knew what he meant.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Lucius was not in their cabin.  It was still standing, albeit a bit crookedly, but it was intact.  But Lucius was not there.  Severus cringed and looked to where Dawn's cabin had been.  It had been the first to succumb to the earth, and now only pieces of splintered lumber stuck up out of the sandy gap.  Where else would Lucius have been?

A thick, sickly knot coiled low in his stomach.  Lucius had followed _him_ here.  If he was dead, it was his fault, in a way.  And Draco!  It would be partially his fault that Draco was made into an orphan.  Would the boy ever forgive him?  Would he ever forgive himself?  

There was a loud crack as a water main broke along the street above the beach.  It was enough to startle Severus out of his pity-party and get him refocused.  Just because he couldn't see Lucius didn't mean that he was dead.  Perhaps injured, but…no, his longtime friend was much too arrogant to let something so simple as a seizure of the earth kill him.   

He crouched near the edge of the fissure, about a foot from where the wreckage of Dawn's cabin protruded from the ground.  He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down into the dark crevice.

"Lucius!  Is anyone there?  Can anyone hear me?"

A moment later a familiar voice wafted up to him from a little further down.

"Severus?  That you?"

"Yes!  Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but there are people hurt down here!"

"Anything really bad?"

"One unconscious, one broken leg, some nasty cuts, but that's the worst of it."

"Does everyone have their wand?"

A pause.  Then,

"All but two."

"Can you levitate them up?"

"Where are you, exactly?"

Severus frowned, pondering how to let Lucius know where he was along the fissure.

"I'll cast a Lumos."  And he did so.  A moment later there was a shuffle and two faces, dimly lit, were staring up at him.  One was Joeri, a Russian wizard, who looked mostly untouched, and the other was Lucius, who looked the exact opposite.  Then again, head wounds usually did look worse than they were, but that thought did not register until after the initial shock of seeing the blond man's face covered in blood.

"Merlin," Severus said reflexively.  At this Lucius gave him a look of annoyance and waved his hand dismissively.

"Something fell on me.  I'm bloody fine."

"You're bloody, that's for sure."

Lucius gave an impatient snort.

"Can we move this along?  I have no desire to be stuck down here for the aftershocks."

Severus carefully levitated Joeri out of the opening and told him to go report to Cyrus.  An Irish witch named Catherine followed, nursing a bad gash on her right arm.

"Where is Dawn?" Severus asked before Lucius walked away.

"With the others."

"How many of you are there, total?"

"Including Joeri and Catherine, twelve."

"Hm."

"What's the matter?"

"We're missing thirteen."

"I'll have a look around, but some of the debris is pretty unstable…"

"That's fine.  The others can levitate themselves up, right?"

"Most likely."

"Aren't we supposed to have a healer among us?"

"She's down here," Lucius answered.  "She's the one with the broken leg.  It's pretty bad…nearly compound.  I don't think we should move her too much."

"How far down are you?"

"Follow my Lumos."

Severus stood and followed the dim sphere of light.  It was amazing how deep the crevice was – probably about fifteen feet into the ground.  The others began to levitate out of the fissure, and a few moments later, Dawn rose up into the pink light of sunrise with the unconscious wizard in tow.  It did not escape Severus's notice that she was wearing Lucius's shirt – and nothing else.

After her, Lucius began to rise out of the earth, the temporarily crippled healer suspended carefully beside him.  Others had come over to help by now, and took over for Lucius once he was on solid ground.  Severus resisted a smirk; Lucius was wearing naught but his pants, which weren't completely fastened – clearly thrown on in great haste.  A comment about 'making the earth move' was on the tip of his tongue, but it was much too easy, and Lucius would likely not appreciate it.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

They did, in fact, have everyone.  Lucius had forgotten to include himself in the hasty count down in the fissure, and once they realized it, the relief among the contingent was palpable.

Cyrus had quite happily declared it a miracle.  Then there had been a short debate about where to go.  Some had wanted to go into the muggle city and blend in until it was safe again, but most were against it.  It was too complicated, and they didn't like the idea of being separated.  So they had decided to stick together and brave the aftershocks on the beach; hopefully they would not be anywhere near as severe as the original quake itself.

Lucius and Dawn sat close together, her back against his chest, his cheek resting in her hair.  They didn't speak, but nothing really needed to be said.  Severus watched them with a slight pang of envy until he realized that he was sitting the exact same way with Hermione – her back against his chest, her fragrant curls beneath his chin, and his arms looped gently around her in a gesture every bit as possessive as the one Lucius was unconsciously displaying.

It made him feel slightly queasy.  Clearly, if Hermione was in her right mind, she'd never want to be…well, wrapped up in him like this.  On impulse, he lifted a hand and tilted her chin up so he could see her face.  Much to his surprise, a pair of perfectly lucid chocolate-brown eyes met his glance.

"What is it?" she murmured, wearing a look that faintly reminded him of a cat that had just been awakened from a nap in its favorite spot.

"Nothing," he replied.  She smiled slightly and then nestled closer to him.  He blinked in shock, but allowed himself to be made into a pillow.  He didn't understand how she could be comfortable leaning against him; he was like all Snapes, lean and sharp-angled.  But within moments she had dozed off, and looked, for all the world, like she was an angel sleeping upon a cloud in heaven.

If he had looked up right then, he would have seen Lucius whispering quietly into Dawn's ear.  He also would have seen that both of them wore suspiciously smug and satisfied expressions.  But he didn't look up; he could not tear his eyes from Hermione's sleeping face.  So the plot went on, unbeknownst to the parties involved.  

At last, Lucius had an ally in his silly matchmaking quest.

A/N – Yes, there is a point to the quake – I didn't just throw it in there for the whole 'man and woman survive natural disaster together and then fall in love' effect.  For one thing, Hermione was too drugged to comprehend much of went on at the initial time of the quake.  As for whether or not she was still feeling the effects of the potion at the end of the chapter, I'll leave that for you to decide ::wink::  In the next few chapters, Draco arrives, Anatole and Nick cause trouble but also make themselves useful, and the focus returns (sort of, LoL) to the school and the artifacts.


	7. Chapter 7

"What in the hell is the matter with you, Anatole?"

Nick's voice startled the man in question out of his thoughts.  He was standing at the window that faced the beach in Nick's apartment.  He couldn't stop thinking about what had happened the other night.  He hadn't been so inebriated as to _see_ things, had he?  No..he'd driven home just fine.  Perfectly clear-headed.

"Nothing…I…" he trailed off, frowning.

"Bullshit," Nick said, balling up a dirty sock and throwing it at him.  "What, did that girl Hermione call you and tell you that you're a horrible person and she never wants to see you again?"

"No," he answered.  "But it does have something to do with her."

"And you're just going to keep it to yourself, hm?"

Anatole stared at his feet for a few moments, oblivious to the sound of Nick hastily packing.

"Have you noticed anything weird about the beach across the street lately?" he asked suddenly.

Nick paused his packing and turned to look at Anatole.

"It's been closed," he said.  "There was a cave-in a few weeks ago, so they closed it down until they can make sure it's stable.  But I guess we should have taken that as a sign, huh?"

Anatole nodded.  The earth had given them a two-week warning in the form of the cave-in, but they'd all been too busy to notice.  He'd been worried about Hermione and Dawn from the moment the earthquake had jarred him out of his sleep.  Were they somewhere safe?  Would they know what to do?  He wouldn't know until he saw them or the cellular phone service was fixed.

_Wait_ a second.  There had been a _cave-in_ on the beach across the street?  Hermione and Dawn had walked right onto that beach!  Suddenly it all made sense.  _That_ was why they'd disappeared from his sight – they had fallen in! 

But that still didn't explain his panic attack upon approaching the beachfront.  There was no reason, absolutely no reason at all, for him to have reacted like that.  But he would worry about that later; right now he had to know if the two women were all right.

In a burst of motion, he spun and grasped Nick by the shoulders.

"Nick, please don't think I'm crazy or anything, but the other night when I dropped you off…when I was about to leave, I saw Dawn and Hermione walking on the other side of the road.  I was about to call out to them to ask if they needed a ride, but they turned onto the beach and then just…disappeared!  I can't explain it any other way…it's like one moment they were there and the next, gone!"

Nick frowned for a moment, but then his jaw dropped.

"Holy shit, they could have fallen in!"

"Nick, we have to go over there!"

Nick dropped the box he was holding to the floor, concern written all over his features.

"But…I mean…is it safe?  We won't do anyone any good if we fall in, too!"

"It's not any safer for whoever we might call!  Let's just go over there.  They're probably fine, but…but I have this feeling…"

"All right, we'll go…but if it's wrecked…"

"I know."

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Draco slouched even lower in the uncomfortable chair.  He didn't understand why he couldn't just apparate to the damned site.  He'd had quite enough of riding rickety old trains for hours and hours back in his Hogwarts days.

"Excuse me, Sir?" an inquisitive voice startled him out of his thoughts.  Finally someone who spoke English…

"Yes?" he replied, looking up.  A portly middle-aged woman in an ill-fitting uniform had stationed herself right in front of him.

"Sir, you needn't wait here anymore."

"Really?" he said, perking up.  "The train is here?"

"There isn't going to be a train."

"Why not?" he demanded, rising quickly to his feet.  He had _not_ been sitting around for the past two hours to be turned away, and he made sure his expression showed it.

"There's been an earthquake, Sir.  The rails have been disrupted.  No train can pass."

"An _earthquake_?" he repeated.

"Yes, an earthquake," she answered, nodding matter-of-factly.  "You see, the Ionian coast of Greece lies directly on the junction of the Eurasian tectonic plate and the Arabian tectonic plate…"

"So this sort of thing happens all the time," he finished.

"Not all the time," she corrected nervously, wringing her hands together.  "But not infrequently."

Draco felt anger bubbling to the surface, but tamped down on it.  It wasn't her fault.  She hadn't caused the earthquake.  She wasn't _that_ chubby.

He bit his lip hard, restraining both his annoyance and the smirk that wanted to pop onto his face.  That only seemed to make her more nervous.  Why was it that people seemed more relieved when he screamed at them and threatened to kill their firstborn children than when he actually tried to control his temper and be nice?

Sighing and running a hand through his hair (which, he noted, had lost some of its luster and perfection during this whole ridiculous debacle), Draco tried to be patient.

"Is there _any_ way I can get to Preveza today?  Or in the near future?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, Sir.  The few roads that aren't damaged are reserved for use by rescue and aid vehicles," she replied, cringing slightly, as if she were afraid of what his response would be.

Rescue and aid vehicles…?  Draco blinked.  Of course, there had been a bloody _earthquake_.  He had heard her say it, but it didn't process until now.  An earthquake, and his father had been right in the thick of it.  Merlin, he could be hurt, or even…

"Do you think—" he started, and then shook his head, "what I mean is, is there any way I can hitch a ride on one of those rescue vehicles?  My father is down there, I'm supposed to meet him..."

The woman's nervousness broke at the mention of family.  Her face softened, and she put a hand on his shoulder.

"There's no way you can reach him?"

He shook his head and lowered his eyes, suddenly feeling bad for his earlier mocking.  This situation wasn't any easier on her than it was on him.

"There are a few trucks leaving the airport in less than an hour.  I'm sure if you just explained the situation and offered to help them out, they wouldn't mind taking you."

Draco gave a grateful, if strained, smile and chewed his lip.

"Um…the thing is, I don't…I can't speak Greek…"

The woman smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

"I'll talk to them for you."

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

_A roar and a sharp crack pulled her halfway to consciousness.  Stuck in the ether, she could hear shouting, but the words were dull and garbled.  She could process only pieces of the panicked conversation._

_"---…bleeding!"_

_"…you doing?"_

_"…insane?"_

_"…just a little girl!"_

_A nauseating lurch, two warm pillars that could only be arms lifting her up._

_"…wakes up…tear out your throat!"_

_"…responsibility…other children…!"_

_"…it's almost dawn, she needs…"_

_"…nothing you can do…"_

_"…I won't!"_

_A low moan escaped her as she was jarred slightly, causing pain to ripple through every inch of her body.  She turned her head, wanting to curl up and escape the piercing voices, and her cheek met a warm, sticky barrier.  A barrier that smelled sweetly of blood…_

_Another moan rose, unbidden, from her throat, and suddenly her body wanted to awaken.  She squirmed, but the arms held her tightly.  Then came the only complete sentence she understood, in a deep, gentle voice._

_"I'm sorry, little one, but you must go to sleep."_

_Then there was something cool against her lips, and before she could react she had swallowed whatever he had given her.  She fought its effects for a few moments, her mind clinging feverishly to the scent of blood.  But no matter how hard she tried to maintain her tenuous grip on consciousness, her body was too weak and exhausted to obey.  Succumbing to the lull of darkness once more, Lilith slipped back into a near-comatose state._

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Lucius glanced up from his breakfast when a pair of legs entered his peripheral vision.  By now, he recognized the feet as Severus's.

"Good mor—oh."

Clearly Severus was not having a good morning.

"Hermione had another nightmare.  I tried to wake her up, and got a fist in the face for my efforts."

"Looks like she got you good," Lucius said, waving his wand absently.  A cold pack appeared next to his plate, and he held it out to Severus.

"I can't really blame her," Snape said, placing it gingerly over his blackened eye.  "I suppose it might be a bit frightening when _this_ – " he gestured at himself with his free hand, "is the first thing you see when you wake up."

"Oh, shut up, old man.  You aren't half as ugly as you think you are."

"Ah, then you admit that you think I'm ugly?"

"Honestly, Severus!  I meant nothing of the sort.  Although I must say, it is a pity she didn't get you in the nose; one well-placed punch might be the answer to all your olfactory woes," Lucius jested, smirking.

"I should have known better than to come to you for sympathy," he said, sitting down across from the blond wizard.  "Where's Dawn?"

"With some of the others assessing the damage."

"Is it as bad as it seemed last night?"

"Yes and no.  The stability of the original entrance is questionable, but they found a new corridor."

"Oh?  Where?"

"Beneath the cabins.  The only problem is that we can't explore it until all the debris is cleared."

"Beneath the cabins, hm?  I wonder if that has something to do with Hermione's nightmares?"

"An intriguing possibility.  Are you hungry?"

Severus knew better than to say no.  It wouldn't have mattered, anyway; Lucius was already preparing a plate of food for him.  A moment later it was pushed towards him.

"The whereabouts of the silverware is currently unknown," Lucius chuckled, "so you'll have to use your hands." 

"I'm surprised you didn't stomp away in righteous fury at the uncivilized manner of dining."

"Righteous fury won't fill my stomach.  Besides, it's not all that messy."

Nodding, Severus began to pick at his plate.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Anatole slowed as they crossed the cracked pavement towards the beach.  Nick looked back, confused.

"What are you doing?  Did you change your mind?"

"No.  I…it's just…when I was here the other day, I felt weird."

"Weird?"

"It was like I had a panic attack or something."

Nick frowned.  Anatole was a fairly laid back person; he was not the type to experience anxiety like that.

"Do you want to go back?" he asked, feeling a small surge of apprehension.  What if Hermione and Dawn _had_ fallen into the pit?  It had been a few days; if there was no water, they would probably be dead, or close to it.  He wasn't prepared for that, but he didn't think he could turn back.  He had really liked Dawn, and Hermione, too, and if there was a chance that they were in trouble, he felt obligated to do what he could to help.

Anatole hesitated for a moment, his eyes focusing on anything but his friend.  He took a deep breath, and then clenched his jaw.

"No.  We're not going back."

"I'll go first," Nick said with a strained smile.  Anatole nodded, and Nick took the last few steps toward the bent guardrail.  

Anatole tensed as he lifted a leg to step over the crumpled metal.  But Nick seemed unaffected; he turned around on the other side and beckoned him forward.  Perhaps it had just been his imagination the other night, or the alcohol…

He stepped forward, ignoring the sinking of his stomach and the alarms going off inside his head.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"Cyrus!  CYRUS!!"

The dark-skinned head excavator looked up from the stack of scrolls on the table.  Dharvish was running towards him, waving his hands frantically.

"What is it?  What's wrong?" he called, shooting out of his seat.

Dharvish stopped in front of him and leaned down with his hands on his knees and panted.

"Muggles…we've been breached!  The wards…no one checked them!  Muggles on the beach!"

"Shit!  Where are they?  Who's responsible for the wards?!"

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"What…what is all this?" Nick stammered, his eyes wide.  "You can't see any of this from the city!"

Anatole was speechless.  There were people everywhere, people of all races and ethnicities.  There was a row of cabins far to the right, and another across from them, most of which had collapsed into the fissure that had opened along the beach.  The people were in clusters, huddling around objects he couldn't recognize.  The shoreline was bustling with activity.  From Nick's window and from across the street, it had looked completely deserted.

As they gaped, a short dark-skinned man turned in their direction.  His eyes widened as he noticed them, and several others nearby rose from their work to stare.  The dark-skinned man took a few halting steps backwards, and then broke into a full sprint towards the row of cabins.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       * 

"I think we're in trouble, Nick," Anatole whispered, swallowing heavily.  They were surrounded now, and the mysterious group did not look very happy.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Nick answered.  His eyes darted from person to person.  They were looking at the two men as if they had never seen human beings before; there was only a shared look of stony determination.  Determination to do what, he couldn't say; that was probably what scared him the most.

"Should we try talking to them?"

"It can't hurt," he said, cringing at his choice of words.  Raising his hands in a surrendering gesture, Nick said cautiously, "We're sorry if we've trespassed in some way." 

There was no response, but some of the people exchanged glances.

"We were just looking for someone," Nick went on.

At last someone responded to them.  He was a dark-skinned, imposing man with a deep voice and a stern face.

"Why would that someone be on this beach?"

"It's two people, actually," Anatole said, encouraged by the man's attention.  "I saw them walk onto the beach a few nights ago.  I didn't realize that there had been a cave-in until today.  We thought maybe they had fallen in."

"No one has been here, and no one has fallen in."  The man's voice was sharp and unyielding.

"But…but I _saw_ them walk onto this beach!" Anatole protested, ignoring the elbow that Nick jabbed into his side.  "What is going on here?  Who are you people?  Why can't we see all this from the city?"

"Anatole, shut up!" Nick hissed, elbowing him again.

"No!  Something isn't right here, and I want an explanation!"

"You want an explanation?" the man said, his voice full of a cloying amicability that made both men uncomfortable.  He lifted his right hand, in which he held a slender piece of wood.  "Just look right here and you'll get it."

His tone was so strange that a sudden surge of fear filled the two men, but even as they turned to run, two of the strange folk caught them and twisted their arms behind their backs.  It wasn't painful, but it was enough to keep them from struggling.

"Now," the man said, coming closer, "just hold still and everything will be all right."  He raised the polished stick in his hand and waved it.  

"_Obliv—_"

"Cyrus, no!  Stop!"

The high-pitched cry stopped him in mid-gesture, and everyone, Anatole and Nick included, looked towards the source of the voice.

"Dawn!" Nick nearly shouted.  He had never been so happy to see a familiar face in his entire life.

"For Merlin's sake, let them go!" she demanded, storming into the circle.

"They're Muggles!" Cyrus shot back, looking dismayed.  "I have to alter their memories!"

"I know them, Cyrus.  I won't let you," she said, planting herself in front of them and crossing her arms over her chest.

"How do you know them?" he asked incredulously.

"Alter our memories?" Anatole murmured to no one in particular.

"Hermione and I went on dates with them earlier in the week," Dawn declared.  That set the small crowd whispering, and Cyrus made a sound of frustration.

"Dawn, if we don't obliviate them we're violating the International Wizarding Laws regarding Muggles!"

"They can keep the secret."

"I'm glad you think so but I'd rather know for sure."

"I vouch for them.  If they reveal us I will take full responsibility."

"It's not that simple!"

"Yes it is.  Put the wards back up.  I'll take care of them."

With a dark look of consternation, Cyrus jerked his arm toward Essah, the wizard in charge of the anti-Muggle wards.

"We will _all_ discuss this at dinner.  For now their memories may remain intact, but I'm not making any promises." 

With that, Cyrus stalked away, muttering to himself.  The crowd dispensed slowly in small clumps, quietly discussing this latest development.  At last Anatole and Nick were left alone with Dawn.

"What…the hell…was that?!" Nick demanded, rotating his arm to work the soreness out of it.

"Yeah, what were they talking about?  Altering memories?  International laws?  Muggers?" Anatole added, his face contorting comically as he tried to make sense of it all.

"Muggles," she corrected absently.

"What in the hell is a Muggle?" 

"You're a Muggle."

"I'm a Muggle?" Anatole said, looking anxious.

"So is Nick."

The two men exchanged glances, even more confused than before. 

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"…so then she says that she and that English girl Hermione went on dates with the Muggles earlier in the week…"

Lucius and Severus had been eavesdropping with some interest for a few minutes, but now their attention had most definitely been captured.  Both of them turned their heads toward the conversation in unison, the same expression on their faces.

"Dates?" Lucius said, one blond eyebrow rising austerely.  The gossipers glanced over at his interruption.  Some of them looked faintly alarmed, doubtless knowing of his tumultuous relationship with Dawn.

"Y-yes," the speaker stammered.  "She said she had gone out with them…"

"Really," Lucius practically purred, in that way of his.  Any alumni of Hogwarts would have recognized the tell-tale signs of Slytherin intimidation; he looked, for all purposes, like a cobra ready to strike.  The fact that Severus was wearing the same look was telling.

"And where are these Muggles now?" 

"Last I saw, walking on the beach with…the American witch."

"Thank you for this valuable information," Lucius stated, standing and striding over to pat the informant on the shoulder.  He did a little more than pat, though; Severus bit back a smirk at the wizard's pained expression.  "Shall we, Severus?"

He nodded, and the two of them sauntered off toward the shoreline, a study in opposites.

The gossipers sat silently, gaping at each other.  Rubbing his shoulder, the loose-lipped wizard mumbled,

"Always was something a bit off about those two…"

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"So…let me recap," Anatole said, his face a mixture of confusion and disbelief.  "You're a witch."

"Correct."

"And all the men here are wizards."

"Mm-hmm."

"And you have wands and can cast spells."

"Yes."

"And…you expect us to believe that?" he said.

"Would you like me to prove it?"

"Yes!" both men said in unison.

"What do you want me to do?" Dawn asked, twirling her wand absently.

"What can you do?" Nick asked, looking interested.

"A lot," she replied, grinning.

"Well, if you're a witch…then shouldn't you be able to turn me into a frog?" Anatole said, sarcasm seeping into his tone.

She gave him a sideways glance and flourished her wand.

_"Amphibious!"_

Nick started badly at the flash of light that accompanied the spell, and scrambled away from the bulge-eyed frog that now sat next to him in the sand.

"Holy Jesus!" he nearly shouted.  "Turn him back!"

"Oh, I can't.  Not for twenty-four hours, anyway," she said casually, shrugging.

"What?!  Twenty-four hours?!  He could get eaten, or stepped on, or…" Nick sputtered, gathering the dazed-looking frog between his palms.

"I'm just kidding, Nick.  Put him down, I'll change him back."

Hesitantly, he placed the frog back on the sand.  

_"Finite incantatem!" _she said, and the slimy green skin paled, stretched, and became a man once more.  A frightened, panicked, and badly confused man.

"What? Why?" Anatole croaked, looking at his hands.

"You asked me to turn you into a frog," Dawn answered, completely unrepentant.

Unable to think of any response, Anatole slumped back onto the sand.

"So it's true," Nick said, his eyes wide.  "You're a witch, and you can do magic!"

Dawn nodded, smiling.

"Wait!" Anatole exclaimed, surging up into a sitting position.  "Then Hermione…?"

"Hermione is a witch, just like me."

"So…this is your job?  This is where you work?"

"For the time being, yes."

"What is it?  What do you do?" Nick questioned, his face rapt with interest.

"Well, you know there was a cave-in on this beach, right?"

Both men nodded.

"The cave-in revealed an ancient school of witchcraft and wizardry beneath this beach.  We're working to excavate it."

"There are schools for magic?" Nick asked, leaning forward.

"Of course there are.  We aren't just born knowing how to do everything the right way.  It's a learning process, like everything else."

"How do you know that you're magical?"

"Well, most of the time you come from a magical family, so you know right away that you're a witch or wizard.  Sometimes, though, regular non-magical people can have magical children.  If that's the case, at first it's just a feeling…a strange little tingling of your senses that tells you there's something more.  Then you start to be able to do unexplainable things when you're experiencing a very strong emotion.  That's usually sometime around your ninth or tenth birthday.  Then you get your letter."

"Letter for what?" Anatole asked, beginning to look just as enthralled as Nick.

"For school.  You have to learn how to focus your magic, or else you'll have no control over it."

"How on earth can you keep all of this hidden from normal people?" Nick asked, shaking his head in awe.

"Spells or wards, usually.  There are spells that can render something invisible unless you're looking for it, spells that misdirect the Muggle mind…"

"What are wards?  That…angry man said something about them."

"They're magical barriers put up to prevent entrance to something."

"Then how come we were able to come onto the beach?" Nick questioned.

"The earthquake disrupted the wards.  We were so busy making sure everyone was all right to even think about them."

"Is that why I felt like I was about to have a heart attack the last time I tried to come onto the beach?" Anatole asked, frowning.

"Most likely," she nodded.  "So, any more questions?"

"Not at the moment," Nick said.  "But I'm sure I'll think of more eventually."

"I'm sure you will," Dawn said, smiling.  A moment later her smile diminished, when her eyes fixed on the two figures moving rapidly in their direction.

"Brace yourselves, boys," she murmured.

"For what?" Anatole said, tensing and glancing around nervously.

"You're about to meet two of the most fearsome wizards of our time, and one of them just happens to be my…er, boyfriend."

"Don't let them turn us into anything!" Anatole begged.  Nick just frowned.

"I won't, I promise.  Don't be afraid.  They won't do anything to hurt you."

A moment later Lucius swaggered up to the trio, his hands in his pockets and his chin high.  Severus skulked behind him, his face blank.

"So, Dawn, what's this I hear about you going on a date with these Muggles?" Lucius queried a trifle disdainfully.

"Honestly, Lucius, what kind of girl do you take me for?" she shot back, her tone playful.

"The kind of girl that I know you are," he baited, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So what if I had a bit of fun with these gents?" she said, wrapping her arms around Anatole and Nick and pulling them against her.  Anatole shook his head, and Nick made a choked sound of negation.  Clearly, they were already terrified of Lucius.  "It's not like we were together at the time," she barbed, her voice full of false innocence.

"You are pushing it, dear girl," he said softly.

"Will you relax, Lucius?" she said, rolling her eyes and releasing the horrified men.  "I only went so that Hermione would have someone to double with."

"It was Hermione's idea?" Snape interjected, his face as unreadable as ever.

"Actually, Sir, it was my idea," Anatole spoke up.  To his credit, his voice barely quivered.  "Don't blame Hermione."

"Oh, rest assured, I won't," he said darkly.  "It's not as though I have any claim on her, anyway."  With that, he turned and stalked away.

"Severus!" Lucius called after him.  The dark-haired man ignored it and kept walking.  With an exasperated sigh, Lucius turned back to the group huddled on the sand.  "You just had to say it like that, didn't you?" he groused.

"You're the one who wanted to know the circumstances of the date, Mister Jealousy.  If I hadn't said it you would have hexed these two into oblivion!"

"Well now they don't have to worry about me, that's for sure."

"Stop it, Lucius.  Snape won't do anything and you know it."

"No, he won't, and that's _exactly_ the point."

"He would have found out eventually."

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Lucius sighed.

"Yes, I suppose.  Well, I'd better be off after him, then."

"I'm sorry," Dawn said.

"It's all right," he replied, waving a hand.  "It's my purgatory."  He turned and trudged across the sand, following the footprints Severus had left behind.

"He's…pleasant," Nick said at last, making a face.  Dawn laughed, amused by Nick's attempt to find something good to say about Lucius.

"You can say it," she chuckled.  "He's perfectly awful when he's jealous."

"He's got nothing to be jealous of.  You seem pretty enamored of him," he replied, looking somewhat glum.

"I suppose I am…" she said thoughtfully, burrowing her toes into the sand.

"That other wizard," Anatole piped up, "does he like Hermione?"

Dawn nodded regretfully.  It was clear to her that Anatole liked Hermione just as much as Snape did, if not more.

"Isn't he a bit old for her?" 

"He's only forty-three."

"_Only_ forty-three?!"

"Wizards and witches live longer than normal people.  Age doesn't matter to us.  As they say, love doesn't heed the calendar."

Anatole sighed and slumped down onto the sand.

"I guess I don't stand a chance against a wizard."

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Draco had quickly become frustrated by the fact that he couldn't use his wand.  He knew there were people trapped beneath the rubble, and one spell would do more to free them and ensure their survival than all the dogs and the bulldozers and the human hands.

He did what he could, walking through the ravaged streets and handing out rice and oats to tired mothers and grubby-faced children.  They wouldn't let him do much else.  If he ever found a moment where no one was looking, he'd cast a few spells here and there; nothing too major, since he couldn't risk drawing attention to himself.

As he rounded a corner, something ran right into him, nearly knocking him backwards.  It was a little boy, and he'd bounced right off and landed on his back in the dirt.  He was up and clinging to the hem of Draco's shirt before he could even extend a hand to help him.  He tugged insistently, saying something over and over.  Draco couldn't understand it, but from the look in the boy's eyes, he wanted help.

He allowed the boy to tug him forward, checking with one hand to make sure he still had his wand.  The boy led him to a small cabin that looked as though it was ready to collapse; upon stepping inside, it was clear that it had already started to.  The boy's mother was there, pacing and crying.  When she saw the Red Cross t-shirt they had given him, she began pointing frantically to the back of the house.  He could hear the thin cry of a baby; it was coming from the pile of wooden beams that had given way.

He examined the mess of wood and plaster, his heart pounding as the baby's plaintive cries echoed in his ears.  He could barely see the outline of the crib; maybe if he could get himself in there, he could lift the beam free?  Crouching down, he put his shoulder against the board and pushed with all his strength.  It moved a few inches, but so did all the other rubble.

It was trapping the baby in, but the precarious arrangement of boards was also holding the rest of that portion of the house up.  Draco chewed his lip, looking for any way he could possibly get to the child without causing any more damage.  There was none, or if there was he didn't have the time to think of it.  He had no choice.

Furrowing his brow, he swished and flicked and shouted the levitation spell.  The beams rose up, linking together and forming a barrier to hold the rest of the house in place.  He gestured toward the mother with his free hand, and she ran to the crib and snatched the infant out of it.

Once both were clear, he released the spell, and the boards fell heavily to the floor.  Breathing hard, he leaned against the wall.  Levitating one object was simple enough, but levitating several and holding them up against a downward force was entirely different.

After a moment, he turned to face the small family.  The child had quieted the instant it found its mother's arms.  She was preoccupied with making sure the baby was all right, but the little boy was staring at him openly, his eyes wide with awe.

Smiling, Draco brought his pointer finger to his lips and winked.  When the mother saw that her child was unharmed, she handed it off to the boy and enveloped Draco in a crushing hug.  Then she pulled back, only to move forward again and kiss him right on the lips.

A moment later she released him, tears in her eyes.  Just when he thought he was free, her husband appeared and he had to endure the same crushing embrace, kiss and all.

Finally he managed to slip away, giving the little boy one last wave.  He rubbed his sore ribs as he walked back towards the trucks.  One of the men helped him up, smiling and patting him on the back.

As they started moving, Draco leaned over to Gerard, who, he'd discovered earlier, spoke French.

"Combien du temps jusqu'a Preveza?"

Gerard clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"Il y a douze villes avant Preveza."

"Douze?" Draco asked, incredulous.  They had been on the road for at least three hours already, and they still had twelve more villages to go?

"Oui.  Avec tous les arrets, nous n'arriverons pas avant la nuit."

Sighing, Draco leaned back and tried to get comfortable.  With a chuckle, Gerard gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, 

"Votre pere sera la."

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

As the sun began to sink over the sedate ocean waves, Lucius began to fidget.

"He should be here by now."

"I'm sure Draco is fine," Hermione said, looking up from the potion bottle she was cleaning.

"The rail system was probably disrupted," Severus added quietly.  His companions glanced at him, surprised; it was the first thing he'd said since that afternoon.

"Severus is probably right," Hermione agreed.  She was mystified as to why he had cooled so much toward her.  At first she thought it was the black eye she'd inadvertently given him, but now she wasn't so sure.

"Why wouldn't he just apparate here?" Dawn asked around a mouthful of her dinner.

"I told him not to."

"If he's anything like you I doubt that would stop him."

"Point taken, but he doesn't know where he's apparating to, so he couldn't even if he wanted to."

"Then I suppose we'll just have to wait," Hermione said.  "Shame."

Lucius gave her a half-hearted dirty look and drummed his fingers on the table.

"What's apparating?" Nick asked.  Anatole had been quiet thusfar, but Nick had been full of questions, prompting Lucius to make a remark about curiosity killing the Muggle.  That had earned him a stinging punch in the arm.

"It's when you magically transport yourself from one place to another," Dawn answered automatically.

"Draco doesn't know where he's going, but you do, Lucius," Snape said.

"That's true…I suppose I could apparate to the train station to see if he's there."

"Indeed you could."

"That's settled, then," Lucius said.  He stood up and stepped a few feet away from the table; and then, closing his eyes and concentrating, blinked out of existence with a quiet pop.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Lucius had only been wandering around the station for a few minutes when a hand clasped his shoulder.  He spun around and saw nothing.

"Excuse me, Sir."

Adjusting his glance downward, Lucius met the eyes of a short, plump woman in an ill-fitting uniform.

"Yes?"

"Are you looking for your son, by any chance?"

Blinking, he managed to nod.

"Yes.  Yes I am.  Have you seen him?"

"Yes, I spoke with him earlier."

"Well, where is he, then?"

"He left with one of the rescue and aid vehicles.  It was the only way he'd be able to make it down to Preveza in any sort of timely fashion.  Looks like you must have missed each other."

"Thank you so very much, ma'am," he said, smiling.

"Would you like me to see if I can book you a hotel reservation?" she asked, turning to pluck a brochure off the rack behind her.

When she turned around, he was gone.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

"Severus, why are you mad at me?" Hermione demanded.  He didn't pause in his mixing of the Dreamless Sleep potion.

"I'm not."

"Oh, please!  You've been acting aloof all day!  I already apologized for hitting you.  You know I didn't mean it!"

"I assure you, Miss Granger, your apology was accepted."

"See, that's how I know you're mad at me," she said, climbing out of bed and taking the small stirring rod out of his hand.  "I asked you to call me Hermione, and you were actually starting to remember.  And now it's back to 'Miss Granger'.  Why?"

"I had a mistaken notion about you, that's why," he said, taking back his stirring rod and returning his attention to the potion.

"What notion was that?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

He shook his head, his lips pursed tightly.

"Well come on, aren't you going to tell me?" she pressed, anger seeping into her tone.  "You certainly never had a problem telling me what you thought about me in the past!"

"It is childish for you to even bring that up," he said through his teeth.  "Now leave me alone, or else this potion will be ruined and you'll just have to suffer with your nightmares!"

"You know as well as I that Dreamless Sleep potion can be left to sit for up to three hours without any adverse effects.  You're just using it as an excuse not to talk to me!  If you don't tell me what's bothering you, you'll just hold in your anger and end up resenting me, and I don't want that!"

There was silence after her outburst.  At last he spoke.

"I was under the impression that you didn't care."

"Of course I care!  I like you, Severus.  I've never known anyone half as intelligent as you.  I feel at ease around you, and safe.  You've kept me out of harm's way dozens of times, then and now.  You've stood by me when half the excavation crew probably thinks I'm crazy!  You have been the bright spot of this whole experience, so if you think for one moment that _I don't care_, you are completely, totally wrong!"

He blinked, as if he was taken aback by her words.  But then his brow furrowed, and his demeanor grew cold again.

"You went on a date with that Muggle."

"What does that have to do with anything?" she asked, bewildered.

Severus looked away, unable to answer.  

"Why do you even care about my personal life?" Hermione demanded.  "Don't tell me you've been spending too much time with Lucius and think I'm too good for a Muggle or something ridiculous like that!"

"You may date whoever you wish, Miss Granger."  He returned his attention to the potion, but she could tell that he was angry; his jaw was clenched and his movements were abnormally jerky.

For a minute she simply watched him, trying to piece together the veiled meanings of his statements.  A moment later her eyes widened.  

He was _jealous_!

She pulled his chair away from the desk and spun it around to face her.

"What in the name of Merlin do you think you're—"

"Do you like me?" she demanded, her face right up in his.

His heart skipped a beat.

"What?" he heard his mouth blurt out.

"I _said_…do you like me?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Translations:

Draco: "How long until we get to Preveza?"

Gerard: "There are still twelve villages before Preveza."

Draco: "Twelve?!"

Gerard: "With all the stops, we won't arrive before nightfall.  Your father will be there."

Only one gleeful author's note to add to this horrid cliffhanger:  I AM GOING TO GREECE IN JULY!  WOO HOO!!!


	8. Chapter 8

It was not often that Severus Snape was rendered speechless. Sometimes people might think they had managed it, but in reality he had merely chosen not to speak. He had let his mouth run its course years ago, let the cruel, sarcastic comments leak out when it suited him, and it had the desired effect; it isolated him. Now he did not need or want that isolation. He had decided that some things were best left unsaid, and thus he often restrained himself.

But now, his quick mind failed him. In the face of her flushed cheeks, her confrontational but vulnerable honey eyes, her sheer proximity…

His cerebral cortex stubbornly refused to supply him with anything that could diffuse the situation, either positively or negatively. He could only imagine the face he was making; he hoped it was nothing she would interpret the wrong way.

"Hermione…" he attempted. "I…"

She tilted her head, waiting expectantly.

"You know…I…well, Salazar's balls, any man would be a fool not to like you!" he managed at last. But apparently, that wasn't good enough for her.

"I'm not asking about any other man. I'm asking about _you_."

"Yes," he said quietly, fighting the strange urge to avert his eyes. "I like you. More than I should."

She straightened up, looking down at him with her brow furrowed. The small distance caused him to relax muscles he hadn't even known he'd been tensing.

"Why shouldn't you like me?"

"There are a multitude of reasons, Hermione. I'm not going to list them all, but among them is the fact that I'm twenty years your senior, a former Death Eater, and I'm just not as attractive as I used to be." There, now some of his brain function was returning; he'd managed a sarcastic remark.

She rolled her eyes.

"Severus, if I cared about any of that, I wouldn't even have tried."

"You shouldn't have. There are better people out there for you."

Her lips pursed in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of McGonagall.

"I think I decide who is best for me, thank you." 

He did not think it wise to argue that. No matter how convinced he was that there were better men in the world for her, she would not stand for being told such things. Never mind that his own feelings on the matter were far from consistent; he did not think himself right for her, and yet, to imagine her with another man made him grind his teeth. What did that mean? What did any of it mean?

She exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed. Hesitantly he returned to the potion, unsure if the conversation was concluded or not. For a few moments all that could be heard was the clink of metal and glass as he stirred.

"Where are you going to sleep tonight?" she asked suddenly. He didn't look up from the potion; he couldn't let her see the panic that had flashed across his face.

"I hadn't though about it," he said a bit too sharply. 

Hermione was ready to feel insulted, but then she noticed how tense he was. His shoulders were drawn up, his back too straight, and the muscles in his forearms bunched. She had thought something as instinctual as liking a person and having a relationship with him or her was relatively simple; now she realized that in some cases it was not. For Severus, it was anything but simple.

Paradoxically, that only made him more intriguing. He had played so many roles in her life already, but clearly he was not ready for this one. Somehow, though…somehow she would find a way. Hermione was determined to make what she could of their mutual attraction whether he liked it or not. Although…how he could _not_ like it was beyond her.

* * *

"It's late."

"Mm-hm."

"Come to bed."

"No."

"What, do I have a new stretch mark or something?" 

"No."

Rolling her eyes, Dawn gave up. She knew when she could not win; Lucius was determined to sit up all night waiting for his son. His devotion was admirable, but the weather had begun to turn. A light drizzle was falling and the ocean air was cool enough to sneak beneath even the warmest of robes.

"At least come inside?" she attempted.

"No."

"Well, don't expect me to brew your Pepper-up."

He smiled and turned to her with fond eyes.

"That's what Severus is for."

"Just as long as we have that clear," she replied, returning the smile. "Come in if you change your mind."

He nodded absently, returning to his quiet vigil.

* * *

I feel like I'm being watched.

I don't know from where or by whom, but I know someone is watching. It can't be Dawn; she's had a long day and is most definitely asleep. It's not Severus. He never emerged from Granger's cabin, which, I must say, is quite encouraging. 

The site is quiet all around me. The ocean whispers to my right, the waves even and rhythmic. To the left, the sound of the city is muted but still present. For a while I had difficulty fighting my exhaustion. I thought the sounds might lull me into a light sleep with my head on the table – a very dignified position indeed. 

At first it was the cold that kept me awake. Now it's that undeniable sensation that I'm being observed. It makes me tense, uneasy…I don't like it. At one time I could have pinpointed exactly where the watcher was. No matter how hard I try, no matter how I tune my ears, I can't do it now.

Every hour that passes frays my nerves a bit more. The rain begins to pour down much harder, dashing any hope I may have had of at least defining a general range of where the observer could be. I sigh, listening to the rain pounding on the canvas above me.

It's funny how I don't usually think about Draco when he's away at University. He sends me an owl every now and then that doesn't really tell me anything, other than that he's alive and doing well enough for some honors. For a while it bothered me, but then I recalled how I acted when I was away at University so many years ago – more or less the same. It's time for him to really find himself, and he doesn't need me interfering. My interference has already done enough damage.

I gather my robes around me. My heating charm has worn off for the third time. I recast it, feeling the weariness creeping up on me again. It would be nice to just retire to the cabin, to climb into bed next to Dawn's warm body and sleep until noon. But I need to be here. I need to be here to show him that I care, because for so long I didn't.

"Miserable weather, eh, Brit?" a deep, rough voice asks, interrupting my internal battle. It's Joeri, the Russian wizard. He strides up to the table and sits across from me, blocking my view of the ocean. I don't care; at this point conversation may be the only thing that can keep me awake.

"Miserable indeed," I reply. He has not spoken to me before, other than when etiquette demands it. I wonder why he wishes to speak now. It seems, for a moment, that he is wondering the same thing. His eyes bore into me intensely, a cool brown ringed with green.

"I taught at Durmstrang, you know," he says at last. "History of Magic." I raise my eyebrows. I don't know if I'm going to like the direction of this conversation. Nonetheless, I engage him.

"I almost sent my son there."

"It is good that you did not."

"Why?" I ask, inclining my head slightly. "All my information indicated that it is a fine school."

"It _was_."

"Was?"

He seems to be struggling for the right words.

"Do you know why Viktor Krum disappeared?"

My spine straightens of its own accord. That has remained one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the war. One day the world-famous Quidditch player had simply disappeared, and no one could offer an explanation. It was as if he had fallen off the face of the earth.

"That boy was a spot of light in that school. All the others, they were infatuated with the Dark Arts and purification of wizard blood. But Viktor…Viktor had a mind of his own, and he had the status to be able to make some kind of difference. And he did, let me tell you. Without him, I don't know how many of those children would have survived."

I watch him and keep my silence. He knows what I was, and most definitely does not care for it. It is not the first time a person has spoken to me of their disgust for the ideals I once held. Severus assures me that it is therapeutic for them, but it is no such thing for me.

"You know Krum never took any mark, and distanced himself from the Dark Lord."

I nod. Voldemort had extended the invitation, but Krum had responded that it was not wise considering his fame. A shrewd argument, to be sure. Voldemort had let it be, deciding that Krum was too wrapped up in Quidditch to pose any kind of threat. I had my reservations about the awkward young man, perhaps because he reminded me so much of Severus at that age. Luckily, Krum was a prodigy at something that was of no use to the Dark Lord, unlike Severus.

"When the war was over, many took the stance that no punishment but death or the Dementor's Kiss was suitable for the Death Eaters."

I look at my hands. I know that Severus and I are lucky to be alive and free.

"Until I met you and your quiet friend, I felt the same way. I didn't think it was possible to rehabilitate a Death Eater."

"It was not a matter of rehabilitation," I say, fighting the irritation that rises in me. So many people forget that making the mistake of being a Death Eater does not make a person inhuman. We are all fallible. Unfortunately, some make more severe mistakes than others.

"What was it, then?" Joeri says, his gaze hard and serious. "Why did they let you live?"

I take a breath. I do not like explaining myself to virtual strangers, but I doubt I will ever be privy to Krum's fate if I do not cooperate with his questioning.

"I always prided myself on being just a little smarter than everyone else. And yet…it took me so long to see that Voldemort's logic didn't make any sense. A half-blood leading the crusade for purification of wizard blood?" I shake my head, agitated. It bothers me that it took me so long to realize that the Dark Lord was little more than a psychopath, so obsessed with his own imperfection that he sought to stamp it out in everyone else. "But it was a means to my desired end, so I embraced it."

"What made you see the truth?"

"My son. He did not have the same…fervor that I did. He didn't want to take the Mark. That, of course, meant that he had to be exterminated. I realized that all Voldemort cared about was his cause, and that he would not hesitate to kill purebloods to put purebloods in power. No one was safe; not me, not the oldest, most traditional purebloods, no one. I'm rationalizing it now. At the time it was a much more…visceral reaction."

"So you turned before the end."

"Yes."

"Some would think worse of you for being a turncoat."

"They did, on both sides. But make no mistake – it wasn't easy. I suffered, and so did my son."

"Did you fight in the final battle?"

I nodded once. That I did not wish to talk about, and he did not press the matter.

"And your friend?" Joeri asked.

"Severus never believed in those things," I say, waving a hand. "He was just so desperate for any kind of acknowledgement…he had so much intellect but so little love. Voldemort offered him a chance to be praised and recognized and respected. No one else ever offered him that. One little push from me was all it took. He was right there in the thick of it with the rest of us." 

"And how was he saved?"

I lean back, my eyes sizing up the wizard before me. He knows more than he appears to, that is for sure, but he does not know everything. My gut tells me he is trustworthy, though. He must have been quite cunning to survive the war as a fixture in Durmstrang who was at the same time opposed to Voldemort's agenda. Nevertheless, there are still those out there who would like to see Severus dead, so the fewer people that know of his time as a double agent, the better.

"He saw the error of his ways much more quickly than I. There was a time when I would have been quite content to kill him, but my guilt stopped me. I had been his friend before I was his comrade, and I led him into hell," I reply quietly. "He is lucky to have survived."

"You are both lucky."

"What does this have to do with Viktor Krum?" I ask, tired of discussing things gone over a thousand times before.

"It has everything to do with Krum. People like you are the ones who got him killed."

So he is dead, then. I cannot say I am surprised, but I do not fully understand what Joeri means.

"Viktor had begun to support people like you and your friend – repentant Death Eaters. He wanted fair trials and humane treatment, but above all he wanted people to be tolerant. He wanted them to forgive. So many, especially the ones close to his age, had been forced into it or pulled in before they knew what it fully entailed."

That was another horrible truth about the war. I had taken the lives of children on the battlefield, mere children. Gregory Goyle had lost his wand arm to me, and later on, his life to one of his own classmates. I had been forced to kill Pansy Parkinson purely out of self-defense. That gave me no comfort, however, in the dark of night when I closed my eyes and could see nothing but the vacant, blue-ringed pupils staring up from her dead face. She had been the one promised to my son, the one I had chosen to perpetuate my line, and though she was rotten to the core, she was only seventeen. I had been rotten to the core at seventeen, too. Hell, I had been rotten to the core for most of my life.

"It is funny that after a time of such intolerance, the people remain intolerant," Joeri said thoughtfully. "The last act of Fudge's uninspiring career was to order the discrete removal of Krum's influence."

My mouth falls open.

"He had him killed?" Even I am shocked by this. The Ministry was and would always be corrupt, but Fudge had been mostly harmless. He was a fool and an imbecile, but I did not think he would go so far to salvage his image and keep the people appeased.

"Oh, yes…Viktor was a big threat to him. The people had almost forgotten how his refusal to believe Voldemort had returned and his complete disorganization had nearly lost the war in the early stages. They were ready to embrace him as the Minister of Magic who had gotten them past the second war. Viktor's support in the East was growing every day. If people in the West caught wind of the opposition to Fudge's no-redemption policy, it would make him seem incompetent and bring back all those previous ineptitudes."

"Could Krum really have been so much of a threat? He was no politician," I say, still having trouble grasping the situation. When I had been in the Ministry, Fudge had been nothing more than a yes-man. He would do nearly anything I ordered. I was not foolhardy enough to think his obedience was out of anything other than fear, but when had he grown a backbone? When had he developed ambition? Perhaps it was there all along, and he had simply been waiting out the storm. The thought was disturbing.

"True, Viktor was not the most eloquent person. But when he was passionate about something, he could sway just about anyone." 

I cannot think of anything to say. I am still stunned at the possibility that Fudge was the ultimate Slytherin; perhaps he just appeared incompetent in order to get everyone to drop their guard. It was fortunate, then, that his retribution had come quickly. Seven months after the end of the war, the last surviving faction of Death Eaters assassinated him at a public appearance in Berlin. Many had lamented his death, but those who mattered had little to say. Dumbledore had become Minister after that, and remained so until his death eighteen months later. From there, Arthur Weasley had taken the reigns. That had been a source of some chagrin to me for a while – a Weasley with more power than me! – but he has done an admirable job and I have gotten used to it.

When I look up again, Joeri is slicing a cigar in half with one of those strange little Muggle devices. I always thought they looked like finger guillotines; I prefer, on the few occasions that warrant a cigar, to use a spell. He holds one half out to me, and I take it. It seems to be the appropriate thing to do. He uses his wand to light the end, and I do the same. The smoke is pungent and strong and I can almost feel my lungs blackening, but it clears my head quite nicely.

"Do they know?" I ask, watching the smoke curl and disperse in the night air.

"Dumbledore did. He pardoned many of those Fudge had condemned, although he kept it quiet."

"That old bastard knew everything."

Joeri smiles a quick, rueful smile at my acerbic eulogizing. I wonder for a moment if he was one of Dumbledore's contacts in the Order. It is very likely the case. How could he know so much if he wasn't?

"I hope your son arrives soon," he says after a few minutes, stamping out the cigar against the table.

"As do I."

He nods briefly and stands. But he hesitates when he moves to walk away.

"Albus always felt that he had failed the alumni that turned as much as they failed him."

I sigh. I have heard that very statement so many times.

"He was only one man. No one can save you from yourself."

The Russian wizard looks at me, his head tilted thoughtfully.

"You're all right, Malfoy."

I chuckle humorlessly. 

"If I'm all right, then I worry about those who aren't."

* * *

Draco was annoyed, but too exhausted to act on it. The truck had gotten stuck in the mud, and they were camped four villages away from Preveza. They were so close, but so far away.

The urge to complain was strong, but he was so tired that it did not seem worth it. No one would listen to him, anyway. He burrowed further into his rough blanket, wishing he was with wizards rather than muggles. It was cold and the floor was hard; as much as he wanted to sleep, he could not.

Their shelter was a large gazebo with a leaky roof. Townspeople whose homes had collapsed were intermingled with them. He had never slept in the same place with so many people simultaneously. Apparently he was the only one with a problem, though. Everyone else was sleeping fitfully; Gerard snored to his left and a little boy and girl were curled up to his right.

He sighed, staring out through the wooden slats. The grass glistened with moisture as the rain continued steadily. The sound of the fat drops hitting the roof would have lulled him to sleep if he had not been so uncomfortable.

Glancing around, he wondered if he could get back to his spot without disturbing anyone. Probably not. But was there a point to just laying there? Not really. If he started walking now, maybe he could make it to Preveza by midmorning. 

Was that prudent? Rain couldn't hurt him, and he had his wand if anyone tried to attack him. He didn't know how many kilometers it was, though. Many of the other villages had been close together, but a few were separated by as much as thirty kilometers. What if these last four villages were far apart? He could not hope to make it to Preveza by this time tomorrow if that was the case. Oh, what he would do for a decent broom.

Perhaps he should wake Gerard and ask him how many kilometers it was to Preveza. But more likely than not, the other man would not allow him to leave.

Draco stood up, carefully stepping around the sleeping bodies until he made it to the archway of the gazebo. Pure, inky darkness met his glance. Electricity still had not been restored, and it was too late for anyone to be doing anything by candlelight.

So what was it to be? Should he gamble? Or should he just wait? Surely the truck would reach his destination tomorrow. Somehow, tomorrow did not seem soon enough. It never did when you didn't know if someone dear to you was alive or dead.

* * *

"A peaceful sleep for a troubled mind," a soft, sugary voice whispered. She sifted her fingers through silky hair the color of the pale winter sun.

"Leave him be," her companion said sternly. "If he wakes, he shall hurt you."

"He will not wake. No man can wake from the spell I weave."

"He is not a man. He is a wizard."

"He is both. And you would not speak so loudly if you truly thought he would wake."

"Hmph," he said shortly, his voice tinged with disdain that they both knew was false. She smiled to herself, brushing the man's hair away from his face.

"The likeness is incredible."

"There are few lines as pure as his."

She looked at her mate, the changing ocean in her eyes.

"The girl will destroy that purity."

"Would that I was mortal, you silly nymph, or I would have discovered that the purity does not matter in a much more timely fashion."

Her face was lit by a demure smile, but it disappeared quickly.

"Do you not worry about the weakening of the blood?"

"The blood weakens itself if it is recycled so many times. It cannot be any worse than that fate."

"I trust in your wisdom, my love." Her sigh ruffled the fine strands of the man's hair

"You find him beautiful," he said. It was not an accusation; he merely stated what was proving to be a very obvious fact.

"Even you must admit that he is."

"Indeed. Give him a merman's tail and he would be one of the most beautiful creatures in the sea."

She smiled at the thought. He bore a strange resemblance to her firstborn; clearly her mate saw it, too. Ah, how fine he would look with a coat of shimmering scales. 

"They are not easily deterred," her partner murmured, staring out at the great fissure that had opened in the earth.

"I am glad."

He gave her a sideways glance, his eyes full of gentle disapproval.

"You are ever the disobedient wife."

"And you are ever the doting husband."

"Aye, I am, and you are lucky," he sighed, running both hands through his wavy hair. "What use have they for these secrets?"

"I have never understood how the minds of mortals work, but they have a right to know."

He grunted, his face contorting in an expression of scorn.

"If I know mortals, they will start a war over it. They have already seen too much war. Would you destroy them?"

"Perhaps this is the right time. They wish only for peace in the wake of their last conflict."

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. Slowly, he turned back to her, doubt etched in his features.

"Mortals always _wish_ for peace. A wish is not reality."

"You have become pessimistic in your old age." Her voice was light with humor, and he envied how relaxed she could be when dealing with such matters.

"You have grown too content to place your faith in creatures that are not worthy," he retorted. She did not take offense; both of them knew that she was a supreme judge of character, and if she chose to grant her favor to someone, that someone would not disappoint her. She smiled a small, knowing smile, and he moved off, sulking.

As the pair faded into the misty air, Lucius woke to the ghost of a touch against his stubbled cheek.

* * *

Severus jolted violently awake in a way he had not experienced since his childhood. Not even the mornings after particularly hellish dealings with the Dark Lord had made him sit bolt upright like this. Only the terror of a childhood nightmare could compare; it was the horror of waking alone in the dark, heart pounding, lungs straining, and wondering if that formless monster was still there with you, silently stalking in the inky shadows. 

Only this time…he was not alone. His breathing slowed as he focused on Hermione's face. She was still deep in sleep, impervious to the noise and his movement because of the potion. Her hair was a bit frizzy from the humidity, standing up in some places from pillow-induced cowlicks. Her mouth was open, and her nose whistled slightly as she breathed.

His lips twitched. He had the most ridiculous urge to smile like a fool. She was beautiful.

Severus stood up, reasoning that he could not stare at her much longer, because somehow people always knew when they were being stared at. He stretched, reaching for the ceiling and lengthening his spine. Then he went over to the sink for a glass of water. His throat always went dry from nightmares like that; it was as if he had been screaming for hours, and though he knew it was only in his head, his hoarseness was a strange physical manifestation of the turmoil in his mind.

The details of the dream were fuzzy. He remembered being asleep, and then his body going numb. A formless weight pressing against him, his limbs uncooperative, and a shadow at the end of the bed…and then it was in his mind, and he wanted to claw at his face and get it out, but he could not move, and the air was so putrid…

His hand shook as he filled a glass. Would these obscure half-remembrances never leave him? Years had passed. Could he ever move on? His mind whispered no. The few years since the end of the War were just that – few – in comparison to his years in Hell. Time was indeed the great healer of all things, but it functioned proportionally. The further you were dragged in, the longer it took to drag yourself back out. And he had gone just about as far as you could get.

He gulped the water, grateful for its cool, crisp flavorlessness. It was times like these that he missed the predictability of Hogwarts. There were never any surprises, and no one ever bothered him. It was easier to press on when you only had yourself to think of. He looked at the last of the water at the bottom of the cup. In those days, it would have been firewhiskey.

Sighing, Severus turned and looked at Hermione over the rim of the glass. Was this fair to her? Was it right that she be saddled with him? She seemed fairly sure of what she wanted (as her ordering him into bed with her had indicated), but what she wanted and what she needed were two different things. She might want him, for reasons unknown, but that by no means meant that her judgment or her feelings were 100 percent correct.

Never mind the fairness of it all. Where was the sense in it? She was a Gryffindor, he was a Slytherin. He was twenty years her senior, a member of a whole different generation, for Merlin's sake! They were about as incompatible as incompatible could get. And yet, if that was the case, how were they managing to get along so well? And how in the nine hells had she convinced him to share a bed with her?

Well, that he actually knew the answer to. He was getting old. His body simply couldn't take sleeping on a floor. He would have done it, though, if she had not invited him into the bed.

Why had he been so willing to slip under the covers beside her? It was all relatively chaste; she was in red linen pajama pants and a pink frilly camisole, causing the formation of many comments about a walking valentine in his brain, which he stifled. He wore light cotton pants and a bizarre oversized muggle t-shirt Hermione had lent him which declared, "One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, FLOOR." He was loathe to even wear the silly shirt (accurate as it was), but he didn't feel right sleeping beside her so exposed. It was better than the other option she had hesitantly presented him with – a grey t-shirt sent to her by her American cousin that said, "I got my crabs from Dirty Dick's!" He failed to see the humor in such a vulgar statement, even after she had explained that Dirty Dick's was a seafood restaurant. He wondered why _anyone_ would eat at a restaurant with the word 'dirty' in its name. She had found his disdain quite amusing.

He supposed he could have borrowed some of Lucius's clothing, but the thought made him roll his eyes. Lucius was fond of a very basic item of muggle clothing, although he only wore them to bed – the plain, sleeveless, ribbed white undershirt. He was even fonder of them now that Dawn had mentioned that they sometimes called them wife-beaters. Typical Lucius. 

In any case, he wasn't going to be able to fall back asleep, so he could change out of her ludicrous shirt. He pulled it over his head and performed a thorough _Scourgify_ before folding it and placing it neatly on top of her trunk.

A bath would relax him. He couldn't face her in this state. He was a nervous wreck, his mind abuzz with a million questions all ricocheting against each other. 

Severus could not shake the feeling that he should have just said no. Though he could imagine the effect it would have on her (because Gryffindors were absolutely awful at concealing their emotions), a part of him felt that it might be the best thing. Dumbledore had once said that it was never right to inflict pain on someone for the sake of protecting them; it took away all their autonomy and needlessly ruined close relationships. But Dumbledore had never felt the way he felt; the old man had never been ugly like he had, never been a social pariah, and most certainly never willingly submitted himself to the sort of unforgivable behavior Severus had. They were two different creatures, intrinsically, and though he tended to agree with Dumbledore's statement, there was always an exception. He was that exception.

This was one of the few areas in which he could identify with Harry Potter. In the last two years of school, the boy had grown sullen, quiet – nothing like the idealistic first-year he had been. Of course he still kept up with his best friends, but he did not give other people the time of day. The boy had not wanted to get close to anyone else; as it was, he agonized regularly over putting Hermione and the Weasley boy in danger. In the end, it had led to Ronald's death. But, as the old man pointed out, Ronald had made those choices all on his own. No one had asked him to be a martyr. Was it better or worse that Harry had not pushed him away? No one could really say, but Severus was beginning to think it was better. If Weasley had not had the courage or desire to save Potter, someone else would have. More likely than not, that someone would have been Hermione. It was terrible for him to think like this, because there had been more honor in the hot-tempered Weasley boy than there would ever be in him, but he could not help it. He was incontrovertibly biased.

That was the only time Severus had felt a bit of sympathy for the Boy Who Lived – there had been no joy in his victory. Dumbledore had worried about the boy. Indeed, for a while he seemed to take a turn for the worst, barely coming out of his room, and turning not to the firewhiskey, as Severus had, but to the hallowed Cannabis leaf for his self-medication. Only one person had reached him through that chemical haze – Ginny Weasley.

Her love had been both a blessing and a curse to Potter. He was incredulous that anyone could care so much anymore; his role in the great war was over, and in his mind, he was useless. She had shown him, in a patient, no-nonsense fashion culled straight from her mother, that she and many others loved him and would not let him waste away. Slowly he started to come back to himself, but doubt would paralyze him at times. In his perception, Ron's death was his fault, and he could not understand why Ron's sister would want anything to do with him. 

This, of course, he had all been privy to in those dark times at St. Mungo's. Lucius was not the only one that had rambled at his bedside. Dumbledore had come fairly often before his duties as Minister of Magic took over his time. McGonagall would read to him twice a week, and though he had already read most of her selections, the lilt and cadence of her voice was pleasant. He had even had a visit or two from Lupin, who was awkward and did not say much. And once, just once, Harry Potter himself.

_"You knew the secret. You knew that there was no use in living like there was a future beyond Voldemort."_

At the time, Potter was right. But now…clearly there was a future. He glanced at Hermione once more. She had shifted in her sleep, her arm draped over the spot he had previously occupied.

The future was always uncertain, but perhaps now he might look forward to it with some small degree of anticipation.

* * *

Lucius did not remember falling asleep. The sun was beginning to brighten the grey horizon, and the air was hazy with humidity. The sensation of being watched was gone, and in its place was something worse; the sensation that someone or something had been very close to him, perhaps even touched him. 

He stood up, his eyes darting warily about. There was no one in sight. The area was still deep in slumber, and there were no footprints in the sand anywhere near him. Even Joeri's had been erased by the wind and rain.

Lucius rubbed his palms against his face. Maybe the lack of sleep was making him paranoid. But his instincts were always fine-tuned, even if they were a bit neglected nowadays. To doubt the feeling in his gut would be to doubt the thing that had kept him alive for the last forty years.

Draco had not come. He sighed, blocking out all the horrific images that formed in his brain. Draco was a strong and versatile wizard. He would make it. Yes, he would make it. Malfoys always did.

He was about to make his way toward the ramshackle kitchen when the sound of flapping wings made him turn back. A hawk was gliding low over the sand, coming directly towards him. It didn't look like it was going to attempt to avoid him. That could only mean it was coming _to_ him. He stuck out his left arm, but not without first making sure that his robe was thick enough to withstand the raptor's talons. Seconds later, the hawk pulled up and landed cleanly on his wrist.

A fresh bloom of joy filled him when he saw that a scrap of paper was attached haphazardly to the bird's leg. Eagerly he unwrapped the crinkled paper, and, as he'd hoped, Draco's small, elegant hand adorned it.

_Father,_

_I am with a search and rescue team that left from the train station yesterday. We were supposed to have made it to Preveza last night, but the truck got stuck in the mud caused by the rainstorm, and we had to stop. I am four villages away. If all goes well, I should be there by tonight, if not sooner. I hope this finds you well and that you remembered to cover your arm with your robe before letting the hawk perch. _

Lucius grimaced. There had been an incident a few years back involving a hawk. After he had turned away from Voldemort, he had been put in a safehouse for a time while Dumbledore and the Order decided what to do with him. They usually sent mail with a raven or a pigeon, but once it had come with a hawk. He hadn't looked up when he heard the beating wings. His indiscretion had been rewarded with eight neat little punctures on his forearm. Eight exceedingly painful punctures.

Well, he had learned his lesson. He stroked the proud head of the hawk as he walked back towards the table he'd been sitting at all night. He let the bird perch on the bench as he transfigured a shell into a quill and set about writing his reply on the back of Draco's.

_Draco,_

_I am glad that you are alive and well. I apparated to the train station yesterday evening looking for you, only to be told by a rotund woman that you'd taken off with some missionary group. Take your time getting here; you are not missing much right now, as much of the site was damaged by the earthquake. As you can probably guess by the absence of blood stains on the paper, I remembered to cover my arm. I do hope you remembered to cover yours, smart ass._

Unable to contain a smirk, Lucius re-attached the letter to the patient creature's leg. He looked about for something to reward the hawk with. After a moment, a small crab caught his eye, and he caught it with a summoning charm. He lowered it onto its back on the table, and the hawk did the rest of the work, cracking the weak underbelly with its beak. After it had feasted, it preened for a few minutes, and Lucius reinforced the spell Draco had used to direct it.

He was smiling when it flew off. Now that his worry was gone, perhaps he could steal a few hours of sleep before the day truly began. Predictably, his mind strayed to the woman waiting in his bed. Hm. Perhaps sleep would have to wait.

* * *

Dawn woke to an arm snaking around her waist and a hot mouth sucking on her earlobe. It was a pleasant way to wake, but she was a little disoriented.

"Mmm...is your kid here?"

"No." His hand slid down the front of her shorts as he said it, trailing brazenly between her thighs. The tingle of pleasure began, surging hotly across her skin.

"Lucius."

"Yes, my dear?" He accompanied his silky inquiry with a small thrust of his hips, brushing his pelvis against her rear.

"I'm guessing everything's all right?"

"Oh yes, splendid. He owled. Any more questions before I fuck you silly?" The hand in her shorts snuck around to cup her buttocks. There was a pause as she thought of her answer.

"Do I get to pick the position?"

Lucius laughed, his breath tickling her neck.

"Positions, my dear. Plural." 

She turned her head so that her lips brushed his and whispered,

"No further questions."

* * *

"What are you reading?" Hermione's voice drifted from the bed, low and husky with sleep.

Severus glanced up from the thin paperback. Hermione was curled on her side, her head resting on her folded hands.

"My birthday present from Minerva," he replied. "An anthology of the works of William McGonagall."

She smiled, laughter in her eyes.

"How is it?"

"Absolutely appalling."

Hermione giggled.

"Is there any relation?"

"Yes indeed, he was her uncle."

"Good thing she stuck to transfiguration, then," Hermione mused, chuckling.

"It was retaliation for the present I sent her at Christmas," he said, his lips twitching faintly. "A walking stick with a mirror attached to the bottom. A pervert cane, if you will, only this mirror is invisible to all but the user and charmed to see through clothing." 

"Severus! That's terrible!" Hermione gasped. Her expression of chagrin crumbled after a moment, though, and she dissolved into giggles.

"You have never seen some of the presents she gives to me," he retorted. "Believe me, mine are tame in comparison." He was smiling as he returned to the book of poetry.

"Read me one."

He turned to her, his face aghast.

"If I'm going to read you poetry, it will most certainly not be that of William McGonagall!"

"Please? I want to know if it's as bad as they say it is."

"It is."

"Just read one." Internally, she marveled at how relaxed he seemed today. Yesterday he had been so jumpy, so irritable. Had it all been because of Anatole? Sharing a bed with him ought to have made it clear enough that she wasn't about to elope with the handsome Greek man. However, she had to wonder how he would react if Anatole was around. Would he always be jealous? Would he always have moodswings?

Grudgingly, he was turning the pages of the book, looking for something suitable. Truly, there was nothing he would ever want to read to a lady.

"You're really going to make me do this?"

She nodded, giving her best wounded puppy look. There were few men in the world who could resist that look; a few years ago Severus would have been one of them. But now he caved, just like Ron always had and Harry still did.

"You asked for it. This is the worst I've seen so far, from 'The Collision in the English Channel." He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and held the book out in front of him. "Oh! it was a miracle how any of them were saved, but it was by the aid of God, and how the crew behaved; because God helps those that help themselves, and those that don't try to do so are silly elves."

"That's…inspiring…" Hermione said, cringing slightly.

"Ha. I could have written that at three years old!"

"You could have written something better than that at three," she replied, snickering. The feckless verse was just as amusing as picturing Severus at three. He had probably had that furrow between his brows even then; she could only imagine the trouble he'd caused, playing with chemicals and compounds at that age.

"No more," he declared, setting the book down. "I feel my brain cells dying with each consecutive line."

Smiling, she contemplated him as he re-arranged the desk. He wasn't lying that first day when he said she knew nothing about him. There was so much to him that she never would have thought possible; slowly, that spiteful, sullen man she had known was fading into the back of her mind, and he seemed like a new acquaintance, someone she had never met before. And yet there were things about him that were the same; his sarcasm, his low tolerance for stupidity, his unparalleled intellect…

At first it had been hard to reconcile, but now she could see that Severus then and Severus now were the same person. The only metaphor she could think of was that of wine; he had been distilled, stored, aged, and now he was near perfection.

* * *

Gerard looked perplexed as Draco suddenly stood up in the bed of the moving pickup truck.

"Assieds-toi!" he said, looking at the young man as if he'd grown another head. "C'est dangereux!"

Draco turned to him, a radiant smile on his face.

"Arretez! Arretez! Dites-lui arreter!"

Gerard yelled for the driver to stop, and a moment later, they rolled to a standstill.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he asked as Draco grabbed a blanket and draped it over his arm.

"Le faucon," he replied, pointing. A hawk was flapping rapidly toward them, and Draco held out his arm. Gerard watched in wonder as the bird pulled up and landed neatly on his companion's arm. Draco patted the bird's head and unwound the battered scrap of paper from its leg.

"Une lettre?" Gerard asked, incredulous.

"Oui, de mon pere." Draco chuckled as he read it; his father did not make jokes or use sarcasm when things were bad, so he must be in fine spirits, thank Merlin. "Tout est bien." Smiling, he took one of the crackers Gerard had been eating and fed it to the hawk. The other man watched, speechless, as the bird picked carefully at the cracker. At last, when it was finished, Draco sent it off with a flick of his wrist and a curt order of,

"Go!"

He turned around and sat back down, the scrap of paper still in his hand. Gerard regarded him curiously. Draco had forgotten that muggles did not generally use birds for mail.

"Ma famille exerce les oiseaux," he lied quickly. "C'est facile, pour moi."

Gerard nodded, apparently satisfied, before telling the driver they could move on. He could see that a weight had been lifted from the boy, even if its method of removal was more than a little strange.

* * *

"I can't believe they let us go," Nick said, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. "I thought they were going to oblivimiate us, or whatever."

"I guess Dawn is pretty convincing," Anatole muttered, nursing his own mug. He sighed heavily.

"I hope so. Her boyfriend really has it in for me, I think."

Anatole shrugged.

"What's the matter with you, Anatole?" Nick asked, leaning forward. "We've just discovered that wizards and witches and magical creatures are real, and you have nothing to say? That's not like you at all."

Anatole shrugged again, staring into his coffee.

"It's Hermione, isn't it."

He nodded sadly.

"The girl I like is a witch. What could she possibly want with a boring person like me? I can't do any magic or brew any potions. What do I have to offer?"

"She doesn't strike me as the kind of person who can be won with flashy things like that."

"But that other guy really likes her, and has known her longer. It would be wrong of me to pursue her."

Nick grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, just once.

"It would be wrong if it was me. But you don't know this man. He's not your best friend. You have as much of a right to romance her as he does."

"I don't think it's a good idea. You're not even _trying_ to get with Dawn and her boyfriend is ready to kill you. Besides, think how complicated it would be…how out of place I would be in her world, and how secretive we'd have to be with my family…"

It was Nick's turn to shrug.

"She might be worth it, Anatole. But I can't figure that out for you."

He nodded.

"She might be."

* * *

"Another test."

He looked away from his brother, frowning. He had not wanted to initiate the first test, and now the witches and wizards were growing on him, as they had on his wife. 

"What did you have in mind?"

"I will summon Artemis. The moon will wax full tonight, and the child will awaken. Sweet Lilith shall see the sky again."

"She has slept for millennia, brother. She will kill them all in her bloodlust."

The handsome god smiled in that pitiless way of his.

"That remains to be seen."

"They are not our toys to play with. They are part of us, or have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing. Time saw men grow weak. If the same has happened for wizards, our secrets are better left buried."

Poseidon nodded once. His brother was right. These events held implications that might very well change the world as they all knew it – god, wizard, man, and beast.

"I see the necessity, but know that I wish them success. My lady and my offspring are most averse to blood in my waters."

Zeus chuckled, waving his hand.

"We shall see, my dear brother, we shall see."

* * *

Translations:

Gerard: "Sit down! It's dangerous!"

Draco: "Stop! Stop! Tell him to stop!"

Gerard: "What is it?"

Draco: "The hawk."

Gerard: "A letter?"

Draco: "Yes, from my father. All is well."

Draco: "My family trains birds. It's easy, for me."

A/N: Relax, people, you don't have to tie me to the computer to get me to update. I've just been insanely busy since February, but school is over in less than 2 weeks. Then I'll have 3 glorious months to write, interrupted only by work and 17 days in July during which I will be in Europe. Just think how much I'll want to write this story once I've actually been to Greece! Enjoy the chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

Draco waved to the departing truck, smiling to himself. He was tired, dirty, and bruised (a two-by-four had clocked him in the face earlier that morning in a crumbling building), but he felt accomplished.

He was glad to finally be in Preveza. The small city didn't look much better than some of the others had; the streets were still littered with rubble, some of the buildings still sagging dangerously, the fire-scorched shop fronts still gaping darkly in the avenues like teeth that had been knocked out. But there were people about, and they were going about their business normally.

Preveza still had a calm, aged beauty about it in spite of the earthquake. It seemed like the ocean was everywhere in this country; he could not remember a moment of his journey that it had been out of view, and it seemed it would stay that way - his father had said they were working on a beach. What he hadn't said was that the whole damn city was on the water; there were probably twenty beaches to choose from. Even so, only one would be surrounded by magic. If he tuned his senses well enough, he should be able to find it.

Closing his eyes, Draco attempted to block out the everyday noise. Magic sometimes had a sound, and something as large as the wards necessary to block off the beach always had a particular feel. Most Muggles could not sense it if it was right on top of them, but a focused wizard might be able to feel such things from a distance.

Already he felt the subtle tug of magic. He was not too far off. If he just kept walking along the coastline, he would find it eventually. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he set off.

* * *

"What a mess," Cyrus sighed, staring out at the beach. Though they had made some progress, it still looked like a disaster area.

"Who cares what it looks like up here," Joeri muttered over his breakfast. "It's down below that counts."

"True enough."

"We should start reinforcing the passageways today," Dharvish added. "They seem to be holding up now, but who knows what will happen if there are more aftershocks."

"I'm sure they had spells and charms to support the structure," Hermione said. "It's amazing that they've held up for so long."

"Amazing and lucky," Dharvish agreed. "Some very strong magic was used here." There were murmurs of agreement all around the table.

"It makes one wonder," Severus said after a few moments. "If they were so strong, and if they spent so much time and effort creating this school…why did they ever leave?"

* * *

Draco frowned to himself. He could sense that he'd finally come to the right beach. He felt the slight hum of the wards; they were most definitely working. If that was the case, then why were two Muggles about to walk right into them? The charms and spells designed to ward off Muggles should have kept them at least ten feet from the edge of the beach. Was it possible that they only _looked_ like Muggles?

As Draco tried to twist his brain around it, one of them stopped just short of the wards. The other, noticing his companion's halt, stopped as well. They both looked straight at him. The first man pointed.

"Hey, are you Lucius's son?"

Draco's eyes widened in surprise. His father making friends with Muggles? Local Muggles? What was wrong with this picture? Maybe he'd gotten whacked on the head by something during the earthquake.

"Ah…well…yes, I am. May I enquire as to who you gentlemen are?" Draco asked cautiously. He didn't want to insult them if they were, in fact, wizards in disguise.

"Oh, my name is Nick, and the quiet one is Anatole." He smiled amicably as he spoke. The one called Anatole just lifted his chin a bit in acknowledgment. "I suppose you're going to the same place as us."

"Yes. Could you perhaps show me to my father?" Draco said, still perplexed by the whole situation.

"Er...well, I guess." The friendly look on Nick's face faltered, and Draco thought that perhaps his father had made enemies as well as friends. That wasn't uncommon, although it was always purposeful. He wondered what Nick had done to earn his father's wrath. "Come on then," he said, waving a hand. "Hope these things are set to accept you."

"It hurts a lot if they're not," Anatole mumbled. Draco smiled. These two weren't so bad, wizard or not.

"Why don't you two go across and ask whoever set the wards if they've been altered to accept me or not?"

"Good idea…umm…"

"Draco."

"Yes. Draco. We'll be back."

* * *

"There's no mistaking those two as father and son," Nick said, once they were out of Draco's earshot.

"Well, you know what they say about the apple and the tree."

Nick nodded, scanning the beach. It was looking much better already; he only wished that the witches and wizards could use their magic on the city. Without it, it would be a long cleanup. Still, the elders said the city had fared much better in this earthquake than the quakes of the past. In an area so prone to shifting earth the architecture had to adapt, so most buildings had stayed upright.

"You know, if we went to the media we'd be millionaires."

"Billionaires," Anatole agreed. "But they'd kill us, and money won't do us much good if we're dead."

"I still can't believe this is real," Nick commented, shaking his head.

"Maybe it's not. Maybe we're in the Matrix," Anatole joked, deadpan.

Nick chuckled.

"I guess we'll find out how far this rabbit hole goes."

* * *

Draco cringed slightly as his father hugged him. His ribs and abdominal muscles were somewhat sore from lifting things, and a crushing 'thank God you're all right' hug was not what he needed. Not to mention that it was quite out of character for his father.

"I'm glad you finally made it," Lucius said, smiling and holding his son at arm's length. The unadulterated parental love and concern in his face was mildly disconcerting. Thankfully, though, a moment later his eyes regained their usual spark of deviousness. "Now we can put you to work."

"Oh no," Draco said, shaking his head. "Not until I get a decent night's sleep on a real bed."

"Brat."

"Pot and kettle, old man."

Laughing, Lucius commented, "I see you haven't neglected your talent for obnoxiousness."

"I learned from the best."

"Oh, off with you, boy, before I hex you," he said. In spite of his dismissal, he took Draco by the wrist and began pulling him towards the food.

"I'm not three, father, you don't have to force-feed me," Draco protested. There was a time when he had to, because Draco had been an incredibly picky child. But certainly not now; Draco was starving, because the volunteers didn't eat any better than the people they were helping.

"Of course I don't have to, but it's amusing."

"You're insane."

"Try some octopus," was all Lucius said in response, and he slapped a grilled tentacle on the plate, suckers and all.

* * *

"Hey there, Granger."

Hermione looked up from her work and smiled.

"Hey, Malfoy. You finally made it, hm?"

"Yes, your wait is over," he said snidely.

"Oh, shush," she replied. Surprisingly, he did shush for a minute. Hermione glanced up from her work. Following his eyes, saw that he was staring at his father. Lucius was crouched down near the edge of the original cave in helping to reinforce the structural spells.

"So…" Draco began, "which one is he shagging?" He asked it point-blank; his face was completely serious, perhaps even a bit glum. Hermione was so taken aback that all she could do at first was cough politely. He'd hardly been here an hour and already he wanted to know every detail of his companions' social lives. She wondered how long it would be before he was demanding to know how much time had gone by since her last shag. Too much was the answer, but she'd never tell him that.

"That one there," Hermione said, pointing as discretely as she could. If she didn't tell him he'd just find out from someone else; she might as well save him a trip. Dawn was standing next to Cyrus, and from the looks of it, she was arguing with him. Probably over Anatole and Nick, she thought. Hermione didn't think they would be a problem, but she wasn't the head of the site. He was probably thinking about how he'd have to obliviate three hundred muggle reporters if either of the men broke their promise.

"The blond one?" Draco asked, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes."

"Ah. She's cute. Nice tits."

"Draco!" A firm slap on the arm accompanied the admonishment. He shrugged.

"What? It's true!"

"Is that what you say about me behind my back?" she asked, only half-kidding.

"Of course not," he answered. "I would never pay you such a crude compliment."

"Good," Hermione said, nodding.

"Now Potter on the other hand…"

"Oh, you're such a liar!" she snapped, delivering another well-earned slap.

"Hey!" he said, holding his hands up. "It's what we snakes do best, right?"

"I wish you were gone already," she sighed, exasperated.

Their relationship since Draco's grudging turnabout had always been like this; full of bickering and half-insults. They got on each other's nerves so much that sometimes Hermione wished he had never come to the good side. But then he would do something so thoroughly uncharacteristic of a Slytherin and a Malfoy that all previous transgressions were forgotten, and the cycle started all over again.

"So what's her name?" he asked, poking at a seashell with his toe.

"Dawn."

"Oh? Where's she from?"

"America."

At this Draco frowned. "There aren't many purebloods in America, are there?"

"No."

He nodded, his brow wrinkled in thought. Blood was and would always be a sensitive topic between them. She could tell that he wanted to ask if Dawn was a pureblood or not.

"She's not a pureblood," she said softly. "They had a drunken one night stand and the next morning they had a huge fight when he realized it."

"That sounds about right."

"They made up at some point. Just before the quake, I think."

"There's no point. I don't know why he does this. As soon as the dig is over he'll be on to the next pretty girl."

"I don't know, Draco."

"And how could you," he replied, sighing.

"You know, you're not exactly Mister Monogamous yourself, so why don't you let him alone."

Draco didn't respond for a moment. Then he turned toward her, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Actually…" he said at last, fidgeting a bit before trailing off. Hermione knew something big was coming; no Slytherin was comfortable with self-disclosure, and seemed supremely uneasy even when they chose to tell.

"Ah…well…I'm actually engaged."

If there had been anything in her mouth, it would have fallen out onto her lap.

"What!? To who? Does he know?" Questions poured out of her; now she had become the gossip.

"A girl, and no."

"Are you going to tell him?" she demanded, ignoring his cheek.

"Eh…I don't know."

"Why?" Then it dawned on her – there could be only one reason for his hesitation. "Do you think he wouldn't approve?"

"I just haven't thought about it much, is all."

She knew that was the most she'd get out of him for now. Sure enough, a minute later his face brightened and he turned to her once again.

"So…" he waggled his eyebrows, "any special someone in your life?"

"I'm not really sure at the moment," she answered curtly. She wasn't ready to tell anyone about Severus yet. She didn't even know if there was anything to tell.

Sensing that the conversation was closed, Draco shrugged and picked up a brush to help her.

* * *

Draco bumped into his father's new lady friend without meaning to. As he was heading toward one of the repaired cabins, he nearly knocked her over. His exhaustion had begun to hit him hard, and he could barely see straight. His only desire was to find a flat surface and lay down; if that surface happened to be a comfortable bed it would be an added bonus.

"Oh…sorry," he mumbled.

"It's all right," the female voice said. "You look tired."

Draco blinked. Her accent was distinctly American. He looked up, knowing it had to be Dawn.

"Yes. It's been a rough few days," he agreed. Her face was pretty in an understated way, and her eyes, though expressive, were guarded. He could see what his father liked about her – she wasn't an open book.

"Glad to finally meet you, Draco," she said, smiling. "Your father was very worried about you."

"Yes, well, we Malfoys always manage."

"Well, I won't keep you. You look about ready to pass out," she chuckled, patting him on the shoulder. With a little nod, she turned and began to walk away.

"Wait," Draco said after a moment. She paused, turning back, her face amicable. She wouldn't like what he was going to say, but he felt he owed it to her.

"What is it?" she asked, coming closer.

Draco took a breath and let it out slowly.

"You see…my father…" he trailed off, searching for the least hurtful words. "My father is a bit of a playboy."

Her brow furrowed slightly. Her eyes were even more shuttered now.

"He…he's always with women a lot younger than him, and he always gets bored after a while. Sometimes it's a week, sometimes a few months, but the result is always the same."

"So you think I'm just another convenient toy for him?"

Draco's jaw worked. Her voice was sharp and intense, and yet her face was remarkably calm.

"I…I don't know. I just thought it would be right to warn you."

She looked as though she wanted to say something, but in the end, she just nodded shortly and said, "Noted."

Draco watched her as she walked back toward the site with the vague feeling that he had done something wrong. She wasn't like the other women his father fraternized with. There was substance to her, something that those other ladies had lacked. He could not put a name to it, but now he knew why Hermione had been hesitant to dismiss the relationship as doomed.

Perhaps this explained his father's overly affectionate behavior. Perhaps he really was _happy_. His father, happy with a woman of questionable blood? It seemed ludicrous, as ludicrous as the painful attraction he had felt for Hermione towards the end of seventh year. As much as he had tried to prevent it, to quash the feelings, his grudging respect of the bold, intelligent muggle-born had transformed into something entirely new to him – infatuation. She had filled his mind for weeks, and he could not stop it, which was terrifying for him. There was no doubting that she had shed her ugly duckling look sometime around fourth year, and aside from her physical beauty, he found himself incredibly fascinated by her mental prowess. He knew some very smart women, but none of them were assertive with their knowledge the way Hermione was. Some of them feared being labeled a know-it-all or a snob, so they would hold back. But Hermione had never been afraid to let people know how smart she was, and the thing that really irked people was that she made no attempt to be modest about it. Still, Hermione had been called a know-it-all and worse, and had made it through everything better off than many of her persecutors.

There was never any hope for Hermione and him. They were too different and there was too much bitter history between them. At best they existed back then like Snape and Black, able to admit that they were colleagues and recognize each other's talents, but hardly anything more.

That first stirring of unrequited adoration had frustrated him to no end. His own mind mocked him when it drifted off in fantasies about her, in more ways than one. But it had taught him that there was one thing that could level any playing field: love.

Draco glanced at the jagged fissure in the earth, now stabilized with several dozen spells and charms. Maybe the field had at last been leveled for his father. He only hoped that Dawn would not take his words to heart if that was the case.

* * *

Severus frowned as he watched the moon rise. It sat on the horizon, a fat white semicircle, huge and luminous. He concentrated hard on the pockmarked surface, thinking of what the grey mountains and shadowy craters would look like in person. Ever since he was a boy he had wondered about such things; in a way he envied Muggle astronauts, for space travel seemed to be the one thing they could do that wizards could not. Well, it was not that wizards couldn't do it. The wizarding community at large did not have much of an interest, and lack of interest meant lack of funding, so the best he could do was read as many astronomy books as he could find.

It had begun to climb now, its shape blurred and obscured by the heat and moisture rising from the sea. Even so, he could tell that it was a full moon. It did not seem right; only a few days ago he had looked at the waning moon with Hermione. By all calculations, tonight should be a new moon, not a full moon.

"Lucius."

"Huh?"

"Look at the moon."

"Yes, darling," he said sarcastically. "Beautiful. What, are you practicing on me for Granger?"

"No, Lucius. It shouldn't be a full moon."

"What do you mean?" he asked, his interest piqued.

"The other day it was waning. It should be a new moon, not a full one."

Lucius frowned. Severus could tell he was searching his memories. After a moment his frown deepened.

"You're right. When I was staring at it a few nights ago, it wasn't more than a sliver. What could it mean?"

Severus shrugged. It didn't make any sense, but strange things often happened after natural disasters.

"I don't like it," Lucius said, narrowing his eyes at the white orb.

"Nor do I," Severus replied. And just then, they heard a sound that made Severus's entire body go cold.

_Awooooooooooooooooooooo…_

* * *

Hermione and Dawn were sitting around a small fire with Anatole and Nick. They were at last introducing the men to the joys of butterbeer and firewhiskey. It had effectively drawn Anatole out of his sullen little shell; he promised Hermione in a mildly slurred voice that tomorrow they would bring a bottle of ouzo.

Nick had never had a shell in the first place, and they all burst out laughing at another one of his ridiculously bad jokes. They were making a lot of noise, but no one seemed to care. An air of relief hung over the site now; everyone was accounted for and much of the damage had been repaired already. Hermione felt only a pleasant, warm buzz between her ears – her thoughts were still clear and sharp, though they took a second more to compute. Dawn was perfectly fine, and, oddly enough, she seemed to be the quietest of the four tonight.

"So there was this one time," Anatole said, sloshing some firewhiskey onto the sand, "we were fishing with our friend Stratos, and he has the worst luck ever, so the first time he tried to cast, the line got stuck in the tree. He couldn't get it untangled, so he had to cut it. And the second time…guess what he did!"

"You'll never guess," Nick chimed.

"Got it stuck in the tree again?" Hermione tried.

"No, it swung back at him and GOT HIM IN THE LIP!" Anatole and Nick roared with laughter, and Hermione and Dawn chorused, "Ewww!" in unison.

"We still call him Fish Hook!" Nick said, holding his stomach and attempting to calm his giggles.

"Yeah, and the doctors at the hospital told him he was the catch of the day!" Anatole chortled, little tears making their way out of the corners of his eyes.

"This one time my friend Ron tried to cast a slug-vomiting hex-"

"Slug-vomiting? Nasty!"

"-On this stupid kid, Draco actually," here she laughed at herself, "but his wand was broken and it rebounded on to him. He was vomiting slugs for hours!"

"That is _disgusting_!"

"I _know_!" In spite of how unpleasant the thought was, three of the four companions burst out laughing again. Dawn did not laugh. She remembered what Hermione had said about Ron. It was strange how easily she spoke of him now, whereas before she had been nearly hysterical with grief. It was probably the firewhiskey; firewhiskey could make you forget everything but the small microcosm you were in.

Finally they settled down, and the firewhiskey bottle circulated for one last round. Just as Hermione was about to speak the toast, a long, loud howl filled the air. Dawn, Anatole, and Nick just looked confused. However, Hermione's glass slipped from her fingers, spilling the whiskey in the sand. She knew that sound.

Her head whipped around. The moon. The moon was full! How could it be full? They weren't stupid, all magical sites took precautions when the moon was at its peak. That day should not have come for another week or two.

"We have to get inside!" she said, panic edging her voice. The wolf was near. She knew what they sounded like up close; it was something she'd never forget.

"What?" Anatole asked, perplexed.

"Inside. Now." Hermione's voice brooked no argument, and both men got shakily to their feet.

"Whoa…" Nick said, blinking owlishly and swaying.

"A werewolf?" Dawn said, her hand reaching instinctively for her wand. "The cabins are wood, they won't withstand it!"

"We'll have to cast reinforcement charms!"

"A _werewolf?!_" Anatole cried. "They're real?!"

"Yes, all too real," Hermione said. "If you're lucky it will just bite you and maul you slightly, but if it's hungry or mad it will tear you to shreds."

"You're luckier if you get torn to shreds," Dawn said grimly.

"Then let's get the hell into the cabin!" Nick exclaimed, clamping onto Dawn's hand and tugging. The group began to run across the beach as best they could; the sand was hard to navigate, and the two tipsy men were having a hard time staying upright. But they made it to Dawn's cabin without being attacked, and she pushed Anatole and Nick unceremoniously through the door.

"Are you coming, Hermione?" she demanded. For some reason Hermione was hesitating.

"Severus!" was all Hermione said before taking off in the opposite direction. Dawn could only gape as the crazy British girl sped over the sand, her curly hair flying behind her.

Panic had spread quickly around the site. Those who had been outdoors were scrambling back to the cabins, some diving inside the nearest one. Dawn looked toward the fissure, hoping no one was still down there working.

A moment later, a dark, bent form emerged from the gap. She could see the silhouette of pointed canine ears, the long snout, the rail-thin, fur-covered body. It raised its head and howled again, its vicious claws swiping at the air.

"My God…" Nick whispered. "It's real…"

"Hermione's still out there!" Anatole said, his voice shaking.

"She…I…there's no one to protect you if I go after her!" Dawn said, pushing them back inside and slamming the door. "She's a very capable witch, and I suspect she's dealt with werewolves before. And Snape's still out there." As she said it, a sinking feeling filled her insides. If Snape was out there, so was Lucius.

She wrestled with her desire to go find them. She could _not_ leave two helpless Muggles at the mercy of a crazed werewolf. They had no chance, no chance at all.

At last, she bolted the door and cast several strengthening and repelling charms on it. All she could do was hope.

* * *

A/N - Bit of a short chapter, but it seemed a natural place to stop. The next chapter will follow shortly. As I suspected, being in Greece was very inspiring for this fic. Unfortunately I couldn't make it to Preveza (although I did pass it on a ferry) or Zakinthos, the island where my grandfather was born. But I went to lots of other interesting places, and you bet I'm going to incorporate them. If anyone wants stories or pictures, drop me an e-mail.


	10. Chapter 10

Severus turned wide eyes on Lucius. The blond man had frozen, his every muscle rigid. He was listening hard, perhaps trying to judge where the wolf was. They had both read accounts of people who had survived encounters with werewolves simply by staying perfectly still; if the wind was right, the wolf would not smell them. As long as something else caught its attention, they might be safe.

But no sound came to aid Lucius in pinpointing the wolf's location. It could be anywhere, and chances were that even if it hadn't seen them yet, it would soon. Slytherins were well-versed in weighing two equally risky options. Both Severus and Lucius calculated the possible outcomes swiftly, and came up with the same decision.

They stood quickly and quietly and began to make their way back toward the cabins. Lucius could hear Severus breathing rapidly. After all he'd been through one might think him fearless, but the encounter at the Whomping Willow so long ago had permanently branded him. Perhaps it had been the first time that he had realized how fragile life truly was. If Potter had not pulled him back, he very likely would have died. As it was, he'd received quite a beating from the Whomping Willow. His heavy breathing might attract the wolf; they had sharp ears, after all, but there was nothing to be done for it. Fear like that could never be fully contained.

"I don't suppose you have any Wolfsbane handy?" Lucius whispered. Severus just shook his head. Even if he had the potion, there was no way they could administer it to the creature in its wolf form.

It was a pity, really. In the years since the war, Severus had made great improvements on the Wolfsbane potion. Remus Lupin was his willing test subject and occasionally a collaborator. Though his specialty was defensive spellwork, he knew potions well enough to offer helpful suggestions when Severus was in a bind. Not that they always went over well – Snape still had a temper, and Remus knew how to provoke it. But after a while they had settled into a familiar cooperation. Lupin was mainly concerned with the way the potion made the subject look and feel; the original formula aged its user prematurely and made him or her feel quite sickly for several days after ingestion. Severus was mainly concerned with whether or not it achieved the desired goal – suppressing the transformation of the werewolf. Together, they had managed to tweak the formula. Now Wolfsbane prevented transformation for three months rather than one, tasted a good deal better, and actually improved the appearance of the user. Due to Severus' work on the potion, lycanthropy was at last becoming something that only a victim's family, healer, and alchemist knew about. He had won many awards for his efforts, and his portrait now hung in the severe creature wound unit of St. Mungo's. He had even received several letters from bite victims explaining how his potion had given them their lives back. Though he did not speak of it, Lucius knew it pleased him to no end to finally be recognized. Personally, he knew Severus had given many more lives back, in more ways than one.

But none of that would do them any good now. A shape was moving towards them, greyscale in the moonlight. They both drew their wands and settled into a dueling stance. Lucius was about to cast a particularly nasty hex when he realized that the shape was too small to be a wolf, not to mention that it was moving all wrong.

"Severus!"

"Hermione?" Snape's voice was strange when he said it.

"There's a werewolf, we have to get inside—"

"Yes, we know!" Lucius cut her off sharply. "We are trying to do just that and you are hindering us!" If the circumstances had been less dangerous, she would have been angered by his tone of voice. However, now she just blinked at him once and then spun around, heading back in the direction she'd come. The two men followed wordlessly, Severus so close to her that if he had been wearing his teacher's robes she would have caught her feet in the hem.

Lucius was just starting to think they might make it when the wolf came into view. Fate was laughing at them; it was directly in their path to the cabins. Its hairy, emaciated back was to them for now. Maybe, just maybe if they stood still and prayed…

For a breathless minute they stood rigidly, beseeching every diety they knew that the wind stay calm and the wolf distracted. The creature prowled agitatedly, sniffing at the spot where Hermione had dropped her firewhiskey. It batted at the empty bottle, letting out a frustrated yowl. And then, unbelievably, it hunkered down and began to lope toward the cabins.

Thankfully everyone had made it inside. Except for them, of course. The wolf prowled near the first cabin, sniffing the crack beneath the door. They heard the sound of claws on wood as it scratched at it, smelling the people inside.

"Should we…should we try to stun it?" Hermione whispered, barely loud enough to be heard.

"It would take all three of us, and that might not even be enough," Severus replied just as quietly.

"And you're drunk," Lucius added. "Your aim will be questionable at best."

"Well, it's not going to overlook us forever," she pointed out.

"I would rather not call it to us," Lucius said, his voice unapologetically irritated. "Don't you agree, Severus?"

"She's right. It will notice us eventually. We still won't have any cover an hour from now."

"But if we wait it may wander far enough that we could make it to the cabins."

"We can't let it wander. There are muggles out there, past the wards," Severus said.

Hermione frowned.

"Wouldn't the wards shock it, if it were to run into them?"

Both men looked at her, mouths hanging partially open.

"Well…it would either knock it out cold, or just make it very, very angry…" Lucius said slowly.

"We could change the wards. Reset them," Severus said, nodding.

"Yes. Set them to kill werewolves—"

"You can't kill it!" Hermione protested as quietly as possible. "That's a person in there!"

"If we don't kill the wolf it will probably be chewing our bones by sunrise!" Lucius hissed in response. "If it's between me and that _thing,_ I choose me."

"There's got to be another way!"

"Then _think of it_," Snape said, his voice deadly. He was quickly becoming fed up with their bickering. At this rate they'd be dead before they did anything.

Half-panicked, Hermione wracked her brain. Lucius was right about the stunning spells, and Severus was right about letting it wander off. She would not even endeavor to bring up the Killing Curse; instinctively she knew that neither man would use it, and she didn't want the creature dead, anyway. What other way was there?

"All right. All right. Change the wards. But don't kill it! Set it at a level that would kill something similar. Make it take a nap until sunrise."

"You know your magical creatures, Granger. Werewolves have a very high resistance to magic. We'd have to set it high enough for a bloody dragon or something."

"Wait. How are we going to get it to approach the wards?" At this, they both looked toward Severus, only to find his spot empty. He was already making his way toward the end of the beach. Lucius looked back at her, and for a moment he resembled the man he had once been. Through his wide, devious grin, he said simply,

"Bait."

* * *

Anatole was mumbling to himself in Greek. Nick was silent, his face pale and blank.

"Shhh," Dawn said suddenly, her voice a sharp whisper. "It's here."

Anatole stopped. His lip quivered slightly as a shadow fell over the crack beneath the door. They could hear snuffling noises as the wolf scented them. Dawn stood absolutely still in front of the two men, her wand raised. She had cast reinforcing spells on the door, but who knew if they would hold?

All three of them jumped badly when the wolf charged at the door, thumping against it loudly and causing dust to shiver down from the ceiling.

"Oh fucking hell!" Anatole gasped, now several shades whiter than Nick.

"Shhh!" both Nick and Dawn hissed. Anatole closed his eyes and clapped a hand over his mouth.

There were more snuffling noises at the crack beneath the door. Then a low, menacing growl issued from the wolf. Shadows danced as it paced.

_Just go away. Please just go away…_Dawn thought desperately, her wand quivering in her hand. If the wolf managed to break through the door, she would have to kill it. She had never used the killing curse, even in the war, and she hoped she would never have to. But stunning alone would not stop the creature outside.

She nearly dropped her wand when it threw its body against the door again, causing an ominous creaking sound to issue from the wood. It knew that the door was the weakest point of the cabin. She had filled the windows in with bricks. Wood was much easier to break, and she doubted it would hold much longer.

Chewing her lip, she waved her wand and the door was covered over with bricks. Sensing the magic, the wolf yowled, and an unbearable screeching sound issued from the wood as it raked its claws across the planks.

"It…it can't get through bricks, can it?" Nick whispered.

"Let's hope not," Dawn replied, her wand still at the ready.

* * *

"When I said bait I didn't mean _me_!" Lucius fumed.

"Of course you didn't," Severus replied sharply. "But you always purport to be the choicest morsel, don't you, Lucius?"

The blond man's eyes narrowed dangerously. Hermione had seen that look before, sometimes behind a mask, sometimes not. It was clear to both her and Lucius that a new sort of nepotism had begun to direct Snape's actions. In this case she didn't mind, but Lucius certainly did.

"Are you exacting revenge for something?" he demanded. "What did I do this time?"

"No, Lucius, I am doing nothing of the sort! You said yourself that Hermione is drunk. What if she can't run very well? What if she falls?"

"Isn't it funny that being in a life and death situation sure has a way of sobering you up?" Lucius seethed.

"Merlin's teeth! I would do it myself if I wasn't the only one who could sufficiently alter the wards!" Severus growled. Sweat had beaded on his forehead, and his face was lined in deep concentration as he focused on tweaking the wards.

Lucius said no more, but he sulked like a petulant child. Hermione huddled close to Severus, watching the movements of his wand and his quiet mutterings. A few tense moments later, his shoulders relaxed and he said softly, "Done."

The other man glared at him.

"I swear on Merlin's testicles, if I am bitten I will personally chain you to your cauldron and whip you until you _cure_ lycanthropy," Lucius said, an accusatory finger actually touching the end of Snape's nose.

"That is, if you don't eat me during your transformations." Leave it to Snarky Snape to make an appearance at a time like this. "Now get going. I suspect that the cabins are ill-equipped to handle werewolf assault."

"So am I, you know!" Lucius protested. But he turned and began to walk away, his wand held tightly in a clenched fist. As Hermione watched him, an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Are you sure this is right?" she asked.

"Would you rather it be you?" Snape replied.

"Of course not. I…I just feel like something bad is going to happen."

Severus gave her a sideways glance. Truth be told, he felt the same way, but he could not even begin to count how many situations had given him that feeling in his lifetime, and he was still here. Taking a deep breath, he did something he had not done in a long time. He reached out his hand and twined it with Hermione's.

She looked up at him with anxiety written plainly in her face, but gave his hand a gentle squeeze. It would be all right. Somehow, it would be all right.

* * *

By now I should have accepted that danger tends to follow me like a hapless admirer. But it was so nice to have a break from these things…so nice to live without the constant burn of adrenaline in my gut. At one time I thrived on that feeling, but now I find it quite unbearable.

I am not foolish enough to tell myself that I am unafraid. There is no one in the world that doesn't fear werewolves. Even the wolves themselves fear the dark abomination they must become. Muggles, who think the creatures are only myths and legends, find their dreams haunted by a mere possibility.

I envy them now. For them this is not a reality. It is a dream, a macabre vision, a hallucination. I could die easier if it was a hallucination that was killing me.

As chaotic as my thoughts are, I have always had an incredible ability to assume an air of perfect calm when involved in such things. It kept me from quailing before Voldemort, the Wizengamot, Dumbledore, the Dementors – all highly disconcerting entities, though for different reasons. The Dark Lord often told me that if it was not for my ostentation, I would be the epitome of Salazar Slytherin's elitist ideals. Slytherin himself lived spartanly, though he did not lack money. He said that possessions bred weakness, and that the only things a man should consider his own were his body and mind. He was a philosopher of sorts; the wizarding version of Machiavelli, as Severus is apt to say. I have not investigated this Machiavelli fellow, for Severus's intellectual assessments are mostly faultless. If I live through this, though, perhaps I shall.

Severus and Hermione seem very far away. I tell myself they are not any safer than me. My brain screams that they are farther away, and thus more likely to survive, but still I walk on as if I am strolling in the gardens of my manor.

I can hear the wolf now. It is growling, keening, vocalizing in absolute frustration. What I am doing is madness. Madness, but, like so many things, it must be done.

Taking a deep breath, I cup my hands around my mouth and do what Hermione instructed. I let loose my best impersonation of a werewolf's call. She said it will come directly to me once it hears. Directly to me.

I feel sick with fear as the sound echoes over the moonlit beach. The angry yowls stop, and a pregnant silence fills the air.

_Run, Lucius, run!_

But I have forgotten how difficult it is to run on sand. In less than a dozen steps, my thigh muscles are burning, my lungs gasping, and panic growing steadily in my mind. I am too far away. I didn't think of the sand. I'm too slow.

Merlin help me, I can hear its rapid footfalls in the wet sand. I can hear its snuffling breath, the wet sound of its jowls flapping in the wind. It can see me, it can smell me, and it wants to splatter my blood all over the sand.

I fire a stunning spell over my shoulder. From its yelp, I know that I managed to hit it. I am just beginning to think I might make it when a searing pain rips through the sole of my foot.

I fall, a scream held back in my throat. With shaking hands I pry at the shard of glass in my foot. I know where it is from; the sand around the entrance of the cave-in had been melted into glass, some of which had splintered apart during the earthquake. I cannot get it out. It's in too deep. My foot is numb up to my ankle.

"Lucius!" Severus's voice is urgent, breaking with fear.

Time takes on a curious quality, and I feel myself split into two. That automatic part of me grips my wand in a palm slippery with blood and fires spell after spell at the ravenous creature. The other part lets the numbness travel through my entire body, shutting me off to everything.

I hear myself shout the killing curse, but either I miss or the creature is unaffected. I can do no more, and in slow motion I see my fate coming toward me, foaming spittle trailing from its jaws and a hellish light in its amber eyes.

I hear Hermione's high-pitched scream as it pounces on me. Still that part of me kicks and thrashes and fights, and I do not feel the animal's claws gouge my arms and chest. But I smell the blood, and see the blood, and drown in it…

* * *

"_SEVERUS! DO SOMETHING! SAVE HIM!!!" _Hermione was screaming, nearly pulling his arm out of the socket. She had already fired a few spells, but from so far away they either missed or did nothing but anger the wolf.

Severus was paralyzed by indecision. From here he could do nothing, but if he ran to help Lucius he would likely suffer the same fate. He had let people die before, because sometimes it was necessary, but those people had never been anyone that meant much to him. Lucius was his friend, his foe, his everything and nothing at the same time. He was simply and unequivocally Lucius, and he had been there, for better or worse, from the beginning. And now there was Hermione, who in a few short days had wormed her way so far into his heart that he could do nothing to endanger her.

"Please, Severus!" Hermione was openly sobbing now. "There has to be something you can do!"

He turned to look at her, his face a study in agony, and something caught his eye. A glint at Hermione's throat. Before she could even react, he had torn the necklace from her neck. He had shouted a spell to melt it, reshaped it into a small, polished ball, and waved his wand violently, causing it to careen off so fast that the air whistled around it.

A second later the wolf was thrown backwards off of Lucius' still form. It yowled horribly, screaming like no creature should have been able to. It writhed in the sand for a moment and then stood unsteadily on four legs. With a wheezing whine, it began to limp away.

Hermione was staring at Severus open-mouthed. His hands were shaking badly.

"Your necklace. Silver," he whispered hoarsely. "Silver bullet."

Hermione fought twenty different emotions at once. Ron had given her that necklace for Valentine's Day seventh year. It only took a few seconds for one emotion to win out. She burst into tears.

Severus took the tears to be for the situation, and with a grim look, he began to walk toward Lucius.

* * *

"Lucius?"

The voice was soft, deep, mellifluous. Severus. Lucius said nothing, but he opened his eyes slowly. He didn't hurt much. Just a dull throb everywhere.

"Did it bite me?" The blond man's voice was distant.

"I don't know. I can't…God, your hands…" he trailed off. He hadn't meant to say that last part out loud, but it was as if Lucius did not even hear him.

"Where did it go? Did you kill it?" Lucius asked. His eyes were becoming glazed and dreamy.

"I don't know."

Lucius's breath suddenly came fast, and a shiver wracked his body. What little color that had been left in his face drained away. The pain was hitting him now, and he was going into shock.

"Fuck," he gasped. "Fuck. I'm stupid. The sand, I forgot it's slower in the sand…!"

"Lucius, relax. Shut up and relax." Severus fumbled in his pockets for any potion that might be useful, but he had none. He hadn't brought any with him. He gritted his teeth, watching blood drip steadily from several of the wounds that peppered his friend's upper body. He knew proper procedure for a werewolf attack. The wounds shouldn't be closed until they could be inspected for wolf saliva, unless they were life-threatening. Once they were closed there was no way to remove the pathogens; they were part of the person forever. But that was absolutely not an option for Lucius. He would bleed out in less than an hour.

Lucius was mumbling. A thin sheen of cold sweat glistened on his forehead.

"The sand…le sable…le verre…"

"Lucius, I have to close your wounds. I have to get you to Catherine while the wolf is gone."

"No…no…leave me…je ne veux pas etre un loup…"

"You have a son and a girlfriend, you great fool," Severus said gently. "They would rather have you alive and on Wolfsbane than dead."

"Nooo…I don't want to be…I am already…un fardeau…"

Shaking his head, Severus reached for the chunk of glass that was still embedded in the other man's foot. If Lucius was unconscious, the thing that the Muggles referred to as 'implied consent' was applicable. Severus took a firm hold on the edge of the glass, and with a substantial jerk, attempted to remove it.

At first it would not budge, and Lucius groaned in pain. Severus cringed, thinking that maybe it was embedded in his bone. But a second later his flesh yielded, and the glass arrowhead slipped out slowly, bringing with it a fresh gush of blood. Before it had cleared his skin Lucius passed out from the pain. Upon examining the shard, Severus saw why; the end was actually curved, and in pulling it out he had probably done more damage. Ah well, it was nothing a good mediwitch or wizard couldn't put right, and now Lucius could not moan to him about wanting to die.

Taking a breath, he aimed his wand at the worst of Lucius's injuries. He was not much of a healer, but he didn't want to risk moving Lucius like this. However, just as he was about to speak the spell, he felt a curious tug in his gut.

A moment later he was kneeling on cool marble, his wand wavering over nothing.

* * *

Hermione's tears were staunched only by the complete and total shock of suddenly being somewhere else. The beach was gone, and in her ears the deafening symphony of cicadas and crickets and katydids was like some kind of torture.

She sank to her knees, an irrational fear welling up inside her. It was dark, though the moon provided just enough light to define the heaps of angled stone all around her. The dirt was hard and packed beneath her knees.

"Severus!!!"

The insects went quiet for a moment. Her voice did not sound like her own when she screamed. It sounded hysterical, panicked, full of grief. A tentative cricket chirped, and a moment later a thousand others joined in, starting the whole cacophony over again.

Doubling over, she took several quick, deep breaths. She had to compose herself. If she lost it now, she would never find out what had happened, or where she was, for that matter.

Several minutes later, she felt calm enough to stand. She did so, leaning on a nearby chunk of rock to help her to her feet. The rock looked old and weather-beaten, its porous surface pockmarked and scattered with fragments of seashells. She was close to the ocean, then.

Of course she was close to the ocean. No part of Greece was more than 85 miles from the ocean. That was assuming she was still _in_ Greece…

She looked more closely at the rock. It was rounded; frowning, she ran a hand over its side. It dipped up and down in a mountain and valley pattern. A segment of a column, then.

These were ruins. How in the hell had she wound up on the site of some ancient ruin? Where the hell was she? What was going on?

Exhaling through her teeth, Hermione once again struggled for composure. At least for the moment she was safe; the site appeared completely deserted, aside from her. Nonetheless, she raised her wand, for caution could not hurt.

Her feet crunched in the dry, packed earth as she walked. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the frail light, she could see chunks of columns arranged in perfect rows. It was as if they were waiting for someone to put them back together.

As she walked down the dirt path, she looked to her right. There was a massive foundation there, as long as a quidditch field and raised perhaps four feet off the ground. The area around it was littered with great chunks of rock. It had been a great structure once, but now it was only rubble.

To her left there was a similar structure, though not as large. This one, however, still had one piece standing. A large, cracked column jutted proudly out of the foundation, its top wide and flat to support a roof that was no longer there. It was perhaps forty feet tall, at least three times as wide as her, and though it was rough and chipped, it was beautiful.

"So, I have you at last, child."

The voice was strong, authoritative, sultry, and undeniably female. Hermione jumped badly, turning in a circle with her wand held protectively in front of her. The voice chuckled at her actions.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" Hermione demanded, her back straightening as her trademark courage kicked in. She hated being toyed with, and would simply not take it right now.

"I'm right here, silly girl." The voice was behind her, and she spun rapidly, ready to fire a spell if necessary. For the umpteenth time that night, her mouth fell open in confusion and shock. There was a woman where there had been no one before, casually leaning against the gigantic column. She was clad in red and white, and her hair flowed in brown corkscrews from the top of her proud head.

"Who are you? What is this place?" Hermione asked, lowering her wand slightly. The woman did not seem to be armed, but there was an aura of power about her.

"This place," the woman said imperiously, "is Olympia. I have many names, but here they call me Hera." She examined her nails as if this admission was just a mundane fact. Then she stepped forward, right off the edge of the temple's foundation. Hermione cringed, thinking she would fall, but she merely drifted down to the ground like a feather in a breeze. "My fool of a husband wanted to see poor Lilith destroy you. I don't know why I put up with him," she said with a roll of her large brown eyes. "But women have loved fools since the beginning of time, have they not?"

* * *

A loud pounding woke Draco, and, groaning, he rolled over and hoped whoever was banging on his door would go away. But they did not; they pounded again, louder and more insistently. Cracking one eye open, he concluded that it could not be much later than six or seven in the morning.

Groggily he rose and sauntered toward the door. Yawning, he deactivated the wards and waved the door open. He was greeted by the sight of Dawn and the head excavator, Cyrus. Just behind them, the two Muggle men stood, looking ashen and exhausted.

"Do you know where your father is?" Dawn asked.

Blinking blearily against the morning light, Draco answered, "No. Should I?"

Cyrus eyed him closely.

"Did you sleep through it?"

"Sleep through what?"

Dawn sighed and Cyrus looked scandalized.

"There was a werewolf attack last night," she said. "You must have slept right through it."

"I was tired," Draco shrugged. "Is everyone all right?"

"That's why we were asking about your father. He and your other companions weren't able to make it to the cover of the cabins before the wolf attacked. We can't find them anywhere this morning," Cyrus said bluntly.

Draco's mouth worked.

"I…I'm sure they just hid out somewhere."

Cyrus shrugged.

"We were hoping you would know something."

Draco swallowed. This was surreal.

"Let me get dressed, and I'll try to find them."

* * *

It was Joeri who found the blood spots in the sand. He sent up a shower of red sparks, and nearly everyone came running, Draco and Dawn in the lead. Dawn looked away when she saw the vibrant red splashes. Draco's jaw tightened, but he forced himself to look. It was only blood. Blood didn't always mean the victim was dead.

"There is more over there," Joeri said gravely, gesturing toward the opening of the school.

"Whose is it, then?" Cyrus asked, sounding resigned. Joeri waved his wand, and a faint light glowed from the outline of the largest stain. A small cloud of red mist rose from it and slowly formed itself into a picture. There was no denying, once it was finished, that it had formed a rough portrait of Lucius Malfoy.

Dawn crouched down and put her hands over her face.

"It's just blood. No body. He could be fine," Draco said, shaken.

"We should test the other blood," Joeri said quietly. "Perhaps it will afford us a clue."

"It seems to be a trail," Dharvish said from a few feet away. He was following the small puddles of blood. "It looks like it goes down into the school."

"Perhaps the three of them hid in there?" Draco said, sounding hopeful.

"If they did, why haven't they come out?" Dawn asked flatly. "It's two hours past sunrise."

"They may not be able to get out if they are injured," Cyrus said. "Dharvish, test the blood."

The Indian wizard waved his wand as Joeri had, but this time the picture was not of anyone they recognized.

"That's not Hermione, and definitely not Snape," Draco said, shaking his head. "I don't know who that is."

"Perhaps it is the werewolf," Essah said.

"Whoever it is, she's down there and she's injured. If we want answers we better get moving," Cyrus said.

* * *

The trail of blood led them deep into the school, into dark corridors they had not yet explored. Everything seemed stable, but they were all nervous anyway.

"What if we come to more security spells?" Joeri asked Cyrus softly. "Lucius is not with us."

Cyrus cast a sideways glance at Draco. His face was blank, and the muscles of his jaw twitched every now and then.

"Perhaps his son will be able to open them, as well."

But they did not come to any more identification spells. The trail stopped just inside a large classroom. Upon stepping inside, they gazed around in wonder.

"Magical creatures," someone said softly. The walls of the massive, high-ceilinged room were lined with glass cases. Inside the cases were all types of magical creatures. Some were just models, but others were real: the head of a basilisk, its eye sockets empty, a winged dragon no bigger than a dog with shimmering blue scales and a white underbelly, preserved fairies hanging from strings, and a particularly large and ugly doxy, its fangs bared.

Far on the opposite side of the room, one case was empty. A girl lay still beneath it, one hand resting limply on the floor of the glass case. A small pool of blood had formed around her prone figure.

Cyrus knelt down beside her and hesitantly reached for her outstretched hand. He felt for a pulse, and then looked at the small label her fingers had been covering. It was in antiquated Greek, but he could still read it.

"Werewolf," he said softly.

* * *

Translations:

Le sable – the sand

Le verre – the glass

Je ne veux pas etre un loup – I don't want to be a wolf

Un fardeau – a burden

A basic comparison of Salazar Slytherin to Machiavelli: "In Chapter 18, perhaps the most controversial section of The Prince, Machiavelli argues that the prince should know how to be deceitful when it suits his purpose. When the prince needs to be deceitful, though, he must not appear that way. Indeed he must always exhibit five virtues in particular: mercy, honesty, humaneness, uprightness, and religiousness." Sound familiar?

And so the story goes into double figures chapter-wise (10) and triple figures page-wise (101). I did update around the end of July, and for some reason a lot of people missed that chapter. It is rather important as a set-up for this chapter, so if you're confused or just don't remember what happened, go have a look at Chapter 9. Again, I'd like to apologize for how long it takes me to update, but I just can't seem to churn out chapters any quicker. Thanks to all my readers and especially those who review for sticking with me. I'm going to try to post some pictures of Greece on my blog; the link will be in my profile. Enjoy, and let me know what you think.


	11. Chapter 11

Severus knew that somehow he had been transported off the beach, away from Lucius and Hermione. In a moment of extreme aggravation and anguish, he shouted and pounded his fists upon the cool, worn marble floor. It left two rough circles of blood on the white stone – Lucius's blood. The sight made him feel boneless.

He sat back abruptly, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing hard. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He needed to compose himself or he would surrender to madness. The sound of his harsh exhalations echoed in the dimly lit structure. It was almost sinister in its cold, tremendous quietude.

Severus closed his eyes. In another moment he would stand up and try to find a way out. Once he found a way out, he would find out where he was. Once that was done, he'd have to—

"Do not worry. Your friends will be all right." The raspy male voice sounded massive in the high-ceiling room.

"I do not share your confidence," Severus replied, getting cautiously to his feet. He could not see the owner of the voice anywhere; his wand pointed at nothing. There was a shuffling noise at the far end of the room, and he whirled. A shadow, stretched to the size of a giant by one of the flickering candles, stood nestled between two columns.

"They could never mistake you," it said. "You're definitely mine."

"What are you talking about?" Severus squinted to make out any feature of the shadow or the shape of a door near it. He could not stay here engaged in idle conversation with this mysterious person. He had to get back to Preveza, back to that beach that had become both a blessing and a curse.

"What am I talking about?" The voice was amused now. "You're ugly, that's what I'm talking about."

Severus could not help the stab of indignance that rose in his gut. Honestly, would he ever be free of that adjective? Couldn't anyone ever find a more gentle or creative way to say it?

"Well, if that is all you have to say, I thank you for your compliment and ask that you kindly show me out of this place," he said, his voice cold, his trademark sneer creeping unconsciously onto his face.

There was another shuffling noise as the shadow began to move toward him. It moved slowly and strangely, with an exaggerated limp. As the dim light replaced the darkness, Severus could see why. The man was lame; beneath his curious garment, his right leg ended in a twisted stump. Other than that he was rather plain looking. He was short but wiry, his muscles stretched tightly on a thin, scarred torso. He had receding brown hair on his head and a thick beard of the same color, and deep-set muddy eyes that seemed too close together above his small, crooked nose.

"Do not let such foolish words get to you, Severus," he said, his thin lips stretching in a smile. "Even gods are ugly."

* * *

"Shall I wake her?"

The sun was high in the sky now, and the air viciously hot. Cyrus rubbed his temples.

"She is no longer a danger to anyone?"

"She hasn't been since sunrise. You know that."

He nodded. "Fine. Wake her."

Catherine took a breath and lowered her wand to the girl's brow. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. The scars from her original bite, white and knotted, stood out against olive skin. It was difficult to heal the kinds of wounds that werewolf claws and teeth delivered, but the scars should not have been as bad as hers were. Either she had gotten very little healing, or none at all. The poor child…

"_Ennervate_."

Her body jerked. Dark eyelashes fluttered, and then her eyes opened. Her eyes were large and hazel, and flickered nervously around at her surroundings. Catherine stared down at her compassionately.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly.

The girl's lips twitched and her brow furrowed. After a moment, she opened her mouth to reply. Catherine, and indeed everyone at the site, had gotten so used to the Babel spell that it took her a moment to realize that the girl's answer was incomprehensible.

"Cyrus…did you understand that?"

Frowning, he shook his head. "Is the Babel spell off?"

"No," Catherine said. "Unless you're speaking English."

"No. Greek…and you hear it as English?" he said uncertainly.

She nodded.

"Ask her another question."

Taking a deep breath, Catherine turned back to the girl. Smiling, she asked, "What is your name?"

The girl shook her head, her knotted black hair flying back and forth. She repeated what she had said the first time. It was no more understandable the second time around.

"It…it sounds very similar to Greek," Cyrus said, looking mystified. "But it doesn't make sense."

"A dialect?" Catherine asked.

"The Babel spell should cover all dialects, too. All existing forms of language that the world knows of."

"Down in the school you said the writing was antiquated Greek. Is it possible that she's speaking a dialect that no longer exists?"

Cyrus looked dumbfounded for a moment. "I…I…it's very possible."

"Then how on earth are we going to communicate with her?" Catherine demanded. "It is difficult to treat a patient if you can't speak to them!"

"I know. I think…" he said, thoughtfully rubbing his stubble, "that I am going to have to pay an old friend a visit."

* * *

Oh. Pain…

This floor feels much too hard to be the beach…

I try to open my eyes, but cannot tell if I accomplish it or not. Either I am still staring at the insides of my eyelids, or it is pitch dark. But I think, judging by the tears that well up of their own accord, that they must be open. There is an overpowering smell here, something that burns my throat and makes my head reel.

"It was stupid to put him near that fissure, Apollo."

"And where else am I going to put him? Out in the sun? Beneath a column that's ready to collapse?"

"He's going to be as drunk as Bacchus when he wakes up, and you know that thins the blood – you're never going to get that wound to clot!"

"Listen to you, you sound like – "

A moan escapes me as my stomach decides that it does not like me very much. A slight, instinctual move to my side and I've lost it.

"Shit." Footsteps move toward me, scraping on the stone. "There is vomit in my temple."

"I told you. Move him away from there, it's cruel to have him breathing that filth in this state."

There is a sigh, and suddenly there are hands on me. I try to squirm away from them.

"Stop moving. I'm not going to hurt you."

Ha. I've heard that too many times to trust it. And I wish they'd just let me die in peace. I don't want to be a wolf. I don't want to hurt anymore. I am done hurting people, done hurting myself.

"What is it going to take for you to relax?" the mystery man mutters. I don't think he expects an answer, but I am going to try to give him one. If I can talk, I can tell him to put me out of my misery.

"Kill me." My voice sounds strangely normal.

He sighs, exasperated. "You mortals are so dramatic!"

* * *

"Potter."

Ginny Weasley shrieked and made a desperate grab for a blanket. Harry just blinked, contemplating if he was still asleep and this was some sort of wonderful sex dream gone bad.

"Malfoy?"

"Yes. For God's sake, Potter, let your girlfriend have the blanket before she explodes."

Harry looked at Ginny. Her face was the color of her hair. He handed over the blanket, oblivious to the fact that he, too, was naked except for his socks.

"Why are you here?" he asked, sitting up. Draco grimaced and plucked a red robe off the hook on the back of the door.

"Not to see you naked, that's for sure," he answered, tossing it at Harry.

"Well, it might help if you apparate _outside the bedroom_ next time. Or, hey, why not outside the door to the apartment? I mean, that's a novel idea!" he snapped, his annoyance finally replacing his endorphins. Throwing the robe on, he practically herded Draco out into the sitting room.

"Listen, I just apparated directly to you, meaning _your physical location_. It's fortunate that I didn't wind up in bed with you."

"I'll count my blessings," Harry said, rolling his eyes. Though most people still thought Harry might be a target for renegades and malcontents, he had insisted that all the protective spells be removed from his person. If he could defeat Voldemort, he could certainly handle a few deranged witches or wizards; really, he just wanted to experience normalcy for once. Draco Malfoy dropping in on him like this was, however, far from normal. Luckily, this was the first time anyone had caught him in such an embarrassing position.

Draco glanced at the clock.

"Augh! It's only 6 am here. Can't you wait 'til nine to have sex, like normal people?"

"Ginny has to be at work at half past seven. And that is none of your business anyway! Why are you here? It better be a good reason!"

Draco sighed. "For once it is, Potter. I need Remus Lupin."

For a moment Harry looked confused. But then his annoyance returned, and he tied the sash of his robe a bit too forcefully.

"Then why couldn't you just apparate to him?" he asked huffily.

"Potter, I don't know where he lives. The only reason I got here is because I'm familiar with the location."

"Point taken," he replied grudgingly. "I suppose you want to me get him for you?"

"Yes. Fast. Now."

"Why do you need him?"

"There was a werewolf attack at the site."

"Oh! Oh, God, is Hermione all right?"

Draco hesitated. "Um…well, she's missing. Along with Snape…and my father."

"Oh no..oh no…" Harry's face went pale, and he sank down into the nearest chair.

"You can relax about Hermione and Snape. There were no physical traces of them anywhere; most of us think they escaped. Who knows why they haven't returned yet, but there is no evidence to think that they're hurt or dead."

"But your father?"

"We found his blood on the beach, but no body. I don't think he's dead. But I need to know if the wolf got him."

"And how is Lupin going to help you with that?"

"We have her."

"Who?"

"The werewolf. We have her, mostly unharmed. If Lupin can communicate with her in some way…smell her, even, before she washes, he will be able to tell if she attacked my father, or if he was bleeding all over the beach for some other reason."

"Doubtful," Harry said, his brow furrowing.

"I know, but I have to be thorough, Potter."

He nodded. "Ok. We'll floo him."

* * *

And so it was that Remus Lupin found himself in a country he'd never visited before, staring at a tranquil blue ocean like none he'd ever seen. Though his errand was grim, he had to admit that he was glad to be here. It had been a long time since he'd seen anything new.

"How do you think she'll react to you?" Cyrus asked.

"I can't say," he replied honestly. "I don't know her history. Some people trust more easily than others."

"I don't think she's ever met another werewolf, except the one that bit her. She was in a display case, after all. Not much opportunity for social interaction."

"Then I hope she will be able to trust me."

Cyrus nodded. Then he turned to Catherine. "Try waking her."

The mediwitch gave him a nervous look, but raised her wand for the spell. There was the worry that she might panic in the presence of another wolf; they all knew it happened, especially if the patient had no time to learn to cope with and accept the change. No one could blame her if she was afraid or even angry; it was no different from anything else that negatively changed a person's life.

The girl woke slowly, her long-lashed eyes flickering. They were a pretty shade of hazel that he had never seen in a werewolf before; most had the same amber brown as him, regardless of what eye color they had been born with. But if what the people on site said was true, she was a few thousand years older than him. Perhaps a thousand years ago, wolves were a little different.

Her eyes went first to Catherine. There was trust in her gaze; somehow she knew the woman was there to help. Then they skimmed over Cyrus. He, too, was a familiar face, but as a cool breeze filtered by her something captured her interest.

Her nose got to Lupin before her eyes. Perhaps it was the first time she was registering that unique smell that told one werewolf that it was in the presence of another. Flecked irises went from him to Catherine and back. Yes, there was definitely a difference.

She spoke. Cyrus and Catherine looked at Lupin simultaneously. He didn't know what they expected him to do. He certainly didn't speak Greek, and definitely not the two thousand year old variation. He shook his head.

"I don't understand," he said softly.

Cyrus frowned, looking as though he was deep in thought. "It might be too convenient…but what she said almost sounded like the modern word for wolf. Just a few sounds off." He repeated the awkward words to her, pointing at Lupin.

She nodded. She was beginning to understand that this was going to be a conversation with no words.

Lupin lifted the scrap of clothing Draco had given him to his nose. Apparently Lucius had worn it yesterday; it smelled musky and had a faint trace of coconut – suntan lotion, perhaps? He had never known anyone in the wizarding world to use it, as there were several spells that served the same purpose, but he supposed that having someone else rub lotion all over you might not be so bad once in a while.

He held the shirt out to the girl. She took it hesitantly, slowly mimicking his actions. Her brows furrowed as she took in the scent. After a moment, she handed it back to him. Lifting her face into the breeze, she inhaled deeply.

Lucius's scent was still here; Remus had smelled it himself, because the sea breeze was wafting it in the right direction. Now she was picking it up, too. She slid down from the examination table, a faint grimace passing over her face. He made a mental note to ask the mediwitch for some pain relief potions; post-transformation pain could last for nearly a week, and sometimes it was severe enough that one could hardly move.

The girl took a few steps toward the shoreline. Haltingly she looked back at Remus. He nodded, moving forward to walk with her.

"It's amazing how trusting she is of him," Cyrus whispered to Catherine, watching them walk slowly toward the fissure. "I don't trust a werewolf any day of the month."

"That werewolf is a decorated hero of the war," Catherine said sharply. "In the final days all the mediwitches in the United Kingdom were called to the battlefield. I saw many things, sir, not the least of which was that man saving the skins of about a hundred people. All the while ignoring his own aches and pains, I might add."

Though his face registered mild surprise and grudging respect, Cyrus grumbled, "Still wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley during a full moon."

Catherine just sighed and strode away, following the strange pair of werewolves down the beach.

* * *

"This is a lovely discussion, really," Severus said through his teeth, "but I have things to do and I would thank you to show me the way out of here!"

"I already told you that your friends are all right. You are not going anywhere for now."

"Oh? And how do you think you're going to keep me here?" Snape's voice was venomous now. This was a serious problem, and if he had to take down this strange little man, he would.

"I would not like to humiliate you." The man stepped closer. He looked directly at Severus, his eyes eerily still and wide. A red light seemed to flicker in the muddy irises and large pupils, and suddenly Snape felt overwhelmed with a sense of incredible power.

"Let's not make a bad situation worse," he amended, his tone more diplomatic. This man, whoever he was, was formidable.

"I very much agree." The balding man smiled lopsidedly, and all the indescribable intensity was gone.

"I am trying to be patient with you," Severus said, struggling to keep his voice even. "But I have a distinct hatred for surprises, and even more for riddles that I cannot solve."

"Then I shall put it to you as concisely as possible," the other man replied. Suddenly his captor was sitting down on a large, flat slab of rock; Severus could have sworn that it had not been there a moment before. But the man had uttered no words and made no motions; he could not possibly have magicked it into existence simply by thinking about it, could he? A moment later he found himself several inches lower, perched upon an ornate metal chair. Oh dear – this strange hermit had obviously cast an Imperius on him. He had not willed himself to sit down - and the chair, _where_ had it come from? – nor could he will himself to stand up. He was trapped. He would have to play along until he found some way to escape.

"I'm listening."

"Good!" the awkward man said, rubbing his hands together. "Now for the silly convention that your kind likes so much. My name is Hephaestus."

Severus felt like casting an Unforgivable on himself. This deluded little man actually thought he was an ancient Greek god! Something must have shown on his face, for the pseudo-god's eyes narrowed. A tense sneer formed on his lips.

"I see. You require proof." The fire came back into his eyes, and suddenly the room became unbearably warm. Heat began to radiate from the pale marble, and Severus's mouth dropped. The floor seemed to liquefy before his eyes, the dappled surface of the marble swirling like molten silver. And while the tepid air caused sweat to break out all over his body, his chair did not seem to sink; it simply had to be an illusion of some sort, that was it! Severus knew that marble had a high melting point, certainly high enough that such heat would dissolve his brains right out of his head were he exposed to it. So this could not be real…certainly not! His deluded friend, though certifiably insane, was obviously quite powerful to be able to create such a vivid illusion. Severus opened his mouth to speak, but the other man cut him off.

"You see, Severus Snape, the world has many names for me," he said, tilting his head to stare at him. Severus blinked repeatedly, trying to keep him in focus; the heat kept drying his eyes out the moment he opened them. His captor's eyes were wild…wild and raw in a way the potions master had never seen. "But my favorite was given to me by the Romans," the man continued. The boiling liquid beneath the chair began to glow an eerie shade of yellow, lighting the imperfect face and distorting his features. "They called me Vulcan."

Severus was sure that it was no coincidence that the chair dropped out from under him just then. He closed his eyes, hoping now that it was truly an illusion and he was not about to be plunged into boiling stone.

* * *

"So…you're Hera. As in…Zeus's wife?" Hermione's brain felt overworked, as if someone had just handed her a particularly difficult set of arithmancy problems.

"Yes, Zeus's wife." Hera rolled her eyes once more. "Though now that's more out of habit than anything else…I suppose in these modern times I could divorce him…" she trailed off, looking thoughtful and devious at the same time.

"You're real."

"Yes, my dear, I am."

"But…no one has ever been able to prove that the Greek gods and goddesses were anything but a series of myths!" The logical part of Hermione's brain was now starting to recover from its shock.

"Have you never heard the saying that all myths have some grain of truth?"

Hermione blinked a few times and then sat heavily on one of the fractured pieces of column.

"Child, I am not asking you to accept that I am real." Without even seeming to move, Hera was beside her, draping an arm around her shoulders. "When you return you can write me off as a hallucination or a dream, if that is your desire. I only need to deliver a message."

"You couldn't have picked a worse time!" Hermione's anger suddenly kicked in. "A friend of mine-" oh God, had she actually just referred to Lucius Malfoy as her friend? – "was attacked by a werewolf and he might be dying right now because no one is there to help him!"

"He was not bitten."

"How do you know?" Hermione demanded shrilly.

Hera's eyes were calm and sure when she spoke. "He is in the care of someone, just as you are."

"What? You mean…another…?"

"Two, as a matter of fact. Though they do tend to bicker a lot, so I hope they have not forgotten about him in their sniping…" At Hermione's horrified look, Hera hastily waved a hand and said, "He is fine, and you needn't worry."

Hermione took several deep breaths. She might as well hear this message; the sooner she did, the sooner she would wake from this bizarre dreamscape. "All right. What is your message?"

Hera's face turned hard and serious. "I do not mince words, child. If you continue to dig at the beach in Preveza, you will find some things that will turn your world upside down. Things that can shatter your world's tenuous peace."

There was a long pause, during which Hermione digested this vague warning. "Can you tell me more?" she asked.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid."

Hermione sighed. "Most things that are worth finding can turn the world upside down."

"Perhaps," the goddess said, smiling benignly. Looking into her warm, maternal face, Hermione had an irreverent thought.

"The myths always portray you as…such a…"

"A bitch?" Hera supplied.

"Yes…not quite the word I was thinking of, but it will do…" Hermione said, laughing nervously.

Hera's eyes sparkled. "That side of me only comes out when I am very angry. Unfortunately, my husband seems to delight in pushing my buttons. Thus bitchy Hera is overrepresented."

"I see." Hermione's fingers twined anxiously. With every moment that passed, the pit in her stomach grew larger and larger.

Sensing that the conversation was over, Hera stood, tall and beautiful. "Back to Preveza you go. We shall speak again."

Hermione raised her head to say thank you, but Olympia had disappeared. Before her lay the sun-baked beach bathed in the orange light of sunset. But clearly the light was playing tricks on her, for she thought, just for a moment, that she spotted Remus Lupin kneeling in the sand by the fissure.

_Things that can shatter your world's tenuous peace…_

The words echoed eerily between her ears, buzzing in her head as if they were the only things her skull contained. It couldn't have been real. The Olympian gods and goddesses were not real. She had encountered a lot of things that her Muggle side once told her were imaginary, but deities…?

Hermione sat heavily on the sand. She let out a yelp a moment later when something poked her in the behind, and hastily shifted to remove the offending object. Her hands trembled as she pulled something out of her back pocket; there, in her palms, was a slightly warped halo of olive leaves. An olive crown – the highest honor given to the victors of the earliest Olympic games. Games that had originated and been held in Olympia until the anti-pagan rule of the Roman emperor Theodosius.

Either she was suffering some serious hallucinations that had included a delirious romp through an olive grove, or she had really been to Olympia. However, just now she wasn't sure, and she wouldn't be for a while, because her eyes were darkening and her brain was following suit.


	12. Chapter 12

Severus did not and would never like closing his eyes in the face of danger. But when one was faced with the prospect of plunging into molten rock, it was not an unreasonable reaction. So he squeezed his dark eyes tightly closed and hoped. A moment later, when he did not feel every nerve in his body being simultaneously incinerated, he dared to open his eyes.

What met his gaze was not the same glowing, blistering material. Rather, it was the marble floor, just as it had been before, and he was moving towards it very quickly.

"Oof!"

Hephaestus chuckled behind him.

"I know that was rather dramatic, but it gets the point across, doesn't it?"

Severus gave him a withering stare and rubbed his smarting jaw. He sat up sullenly.

"Come now, Severus, we both know learning can be cruel." The god said in a strange tone, gesturing at his crippled foot.

"What is it that you want with me?" he asked earnestly. He rubbed his hands over his face, smearing the sweat that still lingered from the intense heat of just moments ago. "If you are a god you know who I am, what my history is…and my current situation…why do you take me away from the only people that matter to me?"

Hephaestus's eyebrow went up. "Honesty. Not what I expected from you."

"Answer my question."

"I have a message. One that you must heed. And you alone can take the actions necessary to stop a certain chain of events."

"Stop speaking in riddles!" The desperate tension of earlier had returned as Severus made his way to his feet. "I cannot waste time reasoning out the cryptic warnings of a capricious god!"

"You are familiar with the laws of science, I trust…any action has an equal and opposite reaction?"

"…Of course!"

"Severus…by me warning you and advising you to take one course of action, the equal and opposite warning must take place. Someone else is receiving this warning as well…someone who will not see practicality! Someone who will want to do exactly what you know to be foolish and wrong!"

"You are gods! You do not need us to play out your ridiculous drama!"

"Severus." Hephaestus took him firmly by the shoulders. "There is much you have to learn about us…and yourself. But I cannot speak of that right now. All I can tell you is that there is something in that school. Something that is best left undiscovered."

"Perhaps all of it was better left undiscovered! But you know as well as I that they will not stop digging."

"Not even at the advice of a god?"

"Until five minutes ago no one even knew you existed, and who's to say they won't just think I've lost my mind? Babbling about gods and demons and hellfire doesn't exactly make one seem credible, or sane, for that matter!"

"There will be others to corroborate your story."

"Why do you need us to do your bidding? If it is so dangerous, can you not deal with it yourself?" Severus huffed. He knew how the Pantheon of legend worked; they toyed with people, entangling mortals where they themselves could not act. The quarrels of those with eternal life could only end in a stalemate, but if regular humans took sides, the results were infinitely more entertaining.

"It is not our danger. We are old, Severus, and nothing can touch our power, but you…" the god trailed off, looking grave.

"What?" Severus demanded.

"I have said too much already. Farewell, Severus." A hot, yellowish haze encircled the god, and for a moment Snape felt a violent frustration welling in his chest that he had not experienced in years. It was the feeling of helplessness, the feeling of being someone's pawn that had driven him mad last time. He had done it for too long without ever knowing what the outcome would be, and he simply could not bear that kind of dangerous ambiguity anymore.

The shape of Olympus's blacksmith was fading.

"Don't do this to me!" Severus called into the haze. "I've done someone else's work my entire life! If there is something you wish to prevent, then prevent it!" The mist became thicker and it seemed almost to choke him, burning his lungs as he attempted one last plea. "Hephaestus!"

The acrid smoke made his eyes sting, and he squeezed them shut. His voice echoed off the temple walls, mocking him. And then his words were gone; he could hear the quiet rush of the sea.

He was dizzy, extremely dizzy. The starry sky swirled around him, and the moon, not quite full now, stared at him like a great eye rolled back in its socket. The water lapped at his ankles and then rapidly retreated, sucking away the sand beneath his feet.

Could he possibly be back at Preveza? The night was so clear and so quiet. So peaceful…and yet he knew that it was short-lived. He had not been around long, by many standards, but it was long enough for him to know that peace was always woefully short-lived. The waves came again, suctioning more sand away from his feet, and he sank a few inches into the wet muck.

Maybe if he stood here long enough the water would erode him away like everything else. But no; small points of light were coming toward him, bouncing and bobbing, and voices were shouting.

"Snape! Snape, is that you?"

No such luck. But then, he was Severus Snape. When had he ever had any trace of luck?

* * *

This time I jerk awake, shocked into a sudden consciousness by a bizarre combination of memories, dreams, and thoughts that oh, right, I ought to be running from something…

And promptly I fall onto a cold, uneven stone floor. Whatever I was laying on was little more than an indentation in the wall.

"Bugger all!" It is out of my mouth before I even think of caution. Someone chuckles to my left.

"Not as graceful as I expected."

I lift myself into a sitting position to glare at my companion. It has not escaped my notice that I am no longer bleeding profusely; in fact, I seem to be completely healed, as if the werewolf incident had never happened. I am thankful for this, but such magnanimous favors do not usually come without obligation. Several dozen questions are floating through my head, but I try to narrow them down to my top three.

"Who are you?" I ask, trying to mask my irritation. I hate these kinds of situations; they are so bloody dramatic and they make me feel like a fool. More or less, I hate not knowing things…hell, I hate not being in control, period.

The person with me – clearly male – is impressive. Tall, well proportioned, but I cannot make out his features. A shaft of sunlight is filtering into the structure directly behind him, and in the cool darkness it seems blinding. He tilts his head slightly and contemplates me.

"My answer to that depends on you."

"How so?" I demand.

"Well, I won't lie, I really dislike revealing myself to people who become crazy and hysterical and refuse to believe what I say."

A slight smile tweaks at the corners of my lips. His tone is exasperated; clearly this has happened to him many times. I find myself liking him, even though I have no idea if he poses a threat or not. Bad, very bad…I am not nearly paranoid enough anymore.

"I can promise you I won't become crazy or hysterical. But, you see, it's kind of in my nature not to believe anything until I know it's true."

He sighs. "I suppose one out of three isn't bad. Get up."

"Where are we going?"

"Outside. I vastly prefer the sunlight."

Cautiously I follow him. So far he doesn't seem threatening at all, except perhaps that intangible tone in his voice. It's the tone that powerful people have – that tone that inspires people to follow him, and causes hesitation in those who don't. I check for my wand; it's in my pocket. Strange. I know I lost it during the attack, so I would have expected it to still be lying on the beach in Preveza.

"Watch your step. You've already been quite clumsy today."

I find myself rolling my eyes. A moment later I have to close them against the glaring sun. It is incredibly bright. I catch a glimpse of intense blue sky before my eyelids shut it out. I breathe deeply, glad to be out of the dark, stuffy room below. The air is different here than on the beach; cooler, fresher, somehow more exhilarating.

"You can look now."

Cautiously, I open my eyes. He is standing directly in the path of the sun, shielding it from my eyes. I find myself unable to tear my eyes from him; it is like the sun is a part of him, exuding from his silhouette. That inkling of power I felt before is amplified now. It's assaulting my senses, and I sincerely hope that staring is not another one of his pet peeves.

"Do I look like I mind people staring at me?" he says, as if reading my mind. I give him a quick once-over and conclude that no, he does not look like the type to be offended by staring. If I looked like him, I wouldn't mind it either. His mildly conceited mannerisms make sense now. He's…well, to put it plainly, he's perfect.

I blink and try to look away. I'm not the type to spend several minutes ogling anyone (at least not blatantly), let alone a man that I know nothing about. It is difficult, though. I see a little smile curve his lips; he likes the attention.

When I finally manage to look elsewhere, I find that the surroundings are similarly beautiful. We seem to be about halfway up a mountainside. Beneath us there is a green valley, and further on more gentle, sloped mountains. Not craggy, jagged things like the Alps…they are more like the rolling hills of southern England, but taller and browner and closer together. The sky is brilliant and cloudless, and the moon, barely visible, is high above us.

"What is this place?" I ask. We are on a long stone platform, raised about six feet off the ground. To the left there is an impressive row of columns. I can see fine cracks and chips in the dulled marble and bare spots along the edge of the platform where other columns once stood. An ancient temple, perhaps?

"This is my temple."

"_Your_ temple," I repeat. I'm not ready to write him off as insane yet; there is something about him, something I cannot explain, that makes me believe he is deserving of his own place of worship. He opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by the sound of many voices mingling together. I hear a crunching noise – the sound of feet on gravel. Several heads appear from below, followed by entire bodies, and I start slightly. I didn't think they were so close. From the looks of them they are Muggles…and from the look of me, they'll probably think I'm a madman. I move toward the crevice we emerged from, but his voice stops me.

"Don't worry, they won't see us."

I turn to look at him. "How do you know?"

He smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. "Trick of the light."

* * *

Severus awoke groggily from a dream he had not had in quite some time. It had plagued him for months in St. Mungo's. In it, he was dead – well, sort of dead, because he was still conscious. Only his body had expired, and rather gruesomely at that, but he felt no alarm at his appearance. For a long time death had seemed a welcome end to him. No, it was not so much the fact that he was dead in the dream that always unnerved him. It was the people who attended the funeral.

There was Voldemort weeping extravagantly from his glittering red eyes. Bellatrix Lestrange was in the corner wailing and singing her hair, streaks of ashes on her cheeks. The senior Crabbe and Goyle were both present, standing near in ill-fitting Muggle suits.

"So tragic," said one.

"Yes, cut down in his prime," said the other.

Many others were about, too; Death Eaters in their masks and outdated Muggle clothing, and it looked as if the masks had _become_ their faces because he could no longer identify them. Corrupt government officials were there as well, milling about and looking only interested enough to be believable. There were Dementors hovering near the ceiling and Fenrir Greyback covered in fresh blood in the back - it never seemed to dry or drip or rub off onto anyone else. And amidst all the subdued chaos, Narcissa Malfoy stood still as a sculpture, her body all severe angles in a black dress. Her face looked like porcelain beneath a black veil; she had black satin gloves on and clutched a dry handkerchief and looked every bit like a widow in a 1940s Muggle movie. Narcissa was always there, every time he had the dream, but never Lucius. Never Lucius.

And then there was Peter Pettigrew. He was in his animagus form, only now he was normal human size – a giant, hairy, disgusting rat on which a delirious Voldemort leaned.

It was about this time that an irrational panic began to build inside him. These were not the people that were supposed to be at his funeral. These…these were the people that were supposed to _cause_ his death, not the people that were supposed to _mourn_ it. What had he done? What had he done for them to honor him so?

Sometimes he awoke before Nagini slithered into the coffin and began whispering his dark deeds to him, and sometimes he did not. But today he had been spared the litany. Invariably, the list made him scream.

He opened his eyes and experienced a moment of confusion. The nearest person was, oddly, Remus Lupin. He looked at the werewolf's profile, and told himself that it was only the red spots blinking in his eyes that made it seem like Lupin was covered in blood.

"Lupin?"

The werewolf turned toward him and gave him a wry smile. "Good morning."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Severus asked. He contemplated getting up, but his body still felt stiff and heavy. It was then that he noticed the girl sitting next to Lupin. She was thin and dark with piercing eyes. "And who the hell is she?"

"She's your werewolf," he answered.

Severus blinked. Why did he still feel so disoriented? What did Lupin mean she was his werewolf?

"But you're my werewolf." He said it before he realized how dazed and stupid it sounded; clearly the brain to mouth filter was still a bit off.

Lupin laughed. "I'm not entirely sure, but that may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Severus promptly turned onto his side, putting Remus out of his view. "Clearly I need more sleep if I'm giving accidental compliments to the likes of you."

Remus chuckled, shaking his head. "I promise I'll never tell anyone. But wait a minute before you go back to sleep. Hermione wanted to talk to you when you woke up."

His eyes shot open. Severus could have kicked himself. Hermione! He had completely forgotten about Hermione! He sat up too quickly, nearly falling off the cot as his equilibrium adjusted.

"She's here? She's safe?" He did not care if his voice sounded a little bit urgent.

"Yes, she's fine. She said she'd be on the beach working on some ancient potion."

All the heaviness and lethargy fled his body. Now there was only a burning need to talk to Hermione about what he had experienced and to find out where she had gone. He was almost out of the tent when he stopped and turned around. Lupin looked up expectantly.

"Any word on Lucius?" Severus asked.

Lupin's brow creased and he shook his head. The girl beside him seemed to wilt.

Snape sighed, and then he was gone.

* * *

Hermione had fully intended to make more progress on cleaning the potion container Snape had given her, but she could not ignore Draco as he sat sullenly on the beach. For a while she had simply sat with him, and then they had had a brief conversation about Snape's return, but now she could no longer restrain herself from asking the question that had been burning in her mind for a few days.

"So tell me about your lovely fiancée, Draco."

This actually evoked movement from him for the first time in nearly an hour. He turned to look at her, an 'Are you serious?' expression on his face.

"I already told you too much, as far as I'm concerned," he said moodily.

"Oh, come on, you know I'm just trying to take your mind off your father."

"By talking about a marriage he might not approve of?" Draco asked, exasperated. "Although I suppose if he's dead it doesn't matter." He drew back his arm and launched a stone at the ocean; it skipped twice and then disappeared beneath the water.

"He's not dead."

Draco turned to her once again, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "How can you stand to be so optimistic? If you're always holding on to the hope that everything will be all right…isn't it that much worse when it's not?"

Hermione shrugged. She had never thought of it that way. It just wasn't in her nature to expect the worst. Maybe it did make things exceptionally painful when they didn't turn out well…but without the hope that it would, would she even be here today?

* * *

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Cyrus said, nervously wringing his hands. "I know you were on vacation, but…"

His friend of thirteen years held up a hand. "Just tell me what the problem is. I know you wouldn't interrupt me unless it was urgent."

"It is urgent. Shall I start with the part that will interest you?"

The other man smiled. "You know me too well, Cyrus."

Cyrus took a deep breath and leaned over the table. The words came out of him without pause. "We've got…a two-thousand year old werewolf that was down in the school in a display case. During the full moon she attacked a member of my dig crew. Now he's injured and missing and we can't understand a damn thing she says. All we've got is that her name is Lilith. The Babel spell doesn't work. It's some kind of antiquated Greek, I think. But we need to be able to understand her if we're going to find him." Cyrus was well aware of how ridiculous and futile it sounded.

Leonidas Andropolous had many talents, not the least of which was for ancient languages. Unfortunately, it had been a long time since his last foray into Hellenic tongues, and Cyrus would not blame him if he did not care to venture there again. A part of him expected Leo to tell him it was pointless and go back to his vacation, but another part remembered a man who could never, ever say no to an intellectual challenge. It was just who he was; he had been born without an ounce of magic, but twice as many brains.

* * *

As Hermione and Draco sat in a comfortable silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts, a shadow fell over them. They both looked up to find a disheveled former Potions Master looming above them. Snape cleared his throat.

"Er…Draco, may I speak to Hermione alone for a few moments, please?"

Hermione didn't look at Draco, but she could almost feel his eyebrow inching up. She still hadn't said anything about their weird attraction, and it seemed that Severus was intelligent enough to use caution around the subject, as well. But Draco was intuitive - he would figure it out eventually. For now, though, she wasn't going to give him any hints.

For his part, Snape felt quite awkward but masked it as he always did: with a stony face and a casual, almost detached tone of voice. He had no idea if Hermione had mentioned anything to Draco. Most likely she had not; why would she, when neither of them even knew the definition of what they were?

"Of course," Draco replied, standing and brushing sand off the back of his legs. "I didn't mean to monopolize her."

"You weren't," Hermione said. "I was just trying to give you moral support, but I forgot that Slytherins don't like that."

To her surprise, Draco attempted a smile. "It was appreciated. I must go sulk in true Slytherin fashion now. If you hear anything…"

Hermione nodded. "I know."

Draco gave Snape a curt nod, and began to walk down the beach. They stayed silent long after he was out of earshot; neither knew what to say. Finally, Severus cleared his throat and spoke more awkwardly than usual.

"I…was glad to hear that you were all right."

Hermione drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. Her voice was soft when she said, "Same here."

"Where did you go?" he asked haltingly. She could tell that he knew she had gone somewhere, but felt strange asking without proof. It was decidedly un-Slytherin-like to make assumptions.

She poked her toe nervously into the sand. "I think…I think to a place called Olympia."

"And did you…meet someone there?" This was his delicate way of asking if she had met a deity like he had. The phrasing was innocuous enough that he could play it off if she hadn't had the same kind of experience, and yet it gave enough leeway for her to admit that she had.

She stared at him for a moment. Her brown eyes were tired and held some emotion that he had not seen before. "Let's…let's not do this now. I know we have a lot to talk about, if your experience was anything like mine. But…I feel like things are going to change, somehow, and I…I just want to preserve this moment, this feeling…"

She was too honest, as always. But he pushed her on. "What feeling?"

"The feeling that everything is all right." She shook her head vigorously as soon as it was out of her mouth. "Well, everything isn't all right, but it never really is, it's just a matter of how much you can bear…" Something was flickering behind her eyes, something painful. "A part of me died in that war…I think a part of everyone did…and I've felt kind of empty ever since…" she paused, taking a deep breath and furrowing her brows.

He couldn't stand it anymore. The traits that had once seemed annoying to him were now entirely too disarming, and the whole time he could not take his eyes off her lips as they moved. The quiver in her voice spoke to the part of him that felt the same way but did not dare to ever fight to the surface.

"…But when I came here it was like I finally far enough away to stop seeing all the scars, I can finally just be the way I was before, I can feel things without worrying about it being used against me, that it'll drive me mad when it's taken away—"

Her honesty tormented and mocked him. But he loved it. Before she could elaborate any further, he finished her thought. He moved in quickly, so quickly that it startled her, and kissed her. It was fast and strange and she was stiff from surprise, and when her lips did not yield he backed away hastily. Perhaps he had misinterpreted her. It would be disastrous if he did, and he cursed his impulsive behavior – it was not like him, but she had that effect, she made him feel things and do things that were not…

Or were they?

Confusion flashed over her face and his simultaneously. But after a moment she stammered, "I…I wasn't ready!" A blush had crept into her cheeks. "I didn't expect you to…"

"I know," he replied. A silence that was half awkward and half bloated with expectation settled over them. Thankfully, it was brief.

"It was the right move," she said, with a small, bashful smile. "I just didn't expect you to be the one to make it.

"I do have a backbone in such matters when it suits me," he replied. The wildness of the previous moment was deserting him, and his old shield of formality was fighting to regain its place. But he would not let it elbow his ardor away; he hadn't felt it in a long time and he could not stand the thought of hurting her with his coldness.

This time she leaned forward, slowly, almost excruciatingly, but with her eyes closed. Uncertainty paralyzed him until the last moment. Just before her lips met his, he managed to seclude it in the corner of his mind that screamed at him to ask her if she was sure she wanted to kiss her old fool of a potions master, because he was hardly worth kissing.

But her lips were on his, and they were delightfully, insanely warm and soft. A sudden hunger overtook him and his arms wrapped around her almost spasmodically. It threw him off balance, and he teetered backwards. He expected her to pull away, but she simply followed him down onto the sand. She was laying sprawled halfway on top of him, and by Merlin's wand, he could not remember ever experiencing a more pleasant weight.

Hermione's hand slid up to cup his jaw, and she tilted her head, the tip of her tongue slowly teasing the tip of his. It was absolutely maddening, and he had to exert some serious control to prevent himself from putting his hands in a place they might not be appreciated – mainly, her lovely rear end.

She was quite an accomplished kisser, but he had expected nothing else from a perfectionist. His lips tingled as they rubbed softly, wetly against hers; slow, conquering kisses that he felt strangely submissive to. She must have noticed the tension in his hands as he struggled to maintain propriety. As her tongue slid and twined with his, one of her hands came down to push his hand lower. He resisted her a little when it came to her hips, but she was insistent, and he yielded, his hand coming to rest on her shapely buttocks. She felt firm and wonderful and he felt no shame giving her a bit of a squeeze. Clearly, Hermione wanted nothing to do with propriety at the moment.

A soft sound came from her as she briefly raised her head for air. She looked at him, her lips slack and red and that sad, pained look entirely gone from her eyes. He wondered how he could have ever insulted her looks; she was a thousand times too beautiful for him.

The ridiculousness of the situation hit him then. Here he was, lying on a beach with a former student half on top of him, and he had just kissed her…been kissed by her. And his hands were on her - a girl who, for years, he simultaneously respected and couldn't stand. A girl who, he was sure, had once hated him. It was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous.

She felt him begin to tense, and her eyes narrowed.

"Don't you dare," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I know you are scared to death of this…of us. But I don't care. I am not going to let you fall back on your old defense mechanisms. I am not going to let our first moment as a couple turn into a fight!"

He closed his eyes. She was right. He was scared. But he couldn't just turn off his brain or his mannerisms. He couldn't stop the doubt, the memories, the old prejudices – he couldn't stop being Severus Snape. But he cared about her, he really did, which was hard enough on its own without everything else…

But they were over the precipice, past tentative looks and flirting. There was no going back. And truthfully, he didn't want to go back. It was simply that he had no idea how to go forward.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I don't know how to do this…normally." He couldn't look at her; he was the most embarrassed and at the same time the most relieved he had ever been in his life.

"Normally," she said, "you would relax and kiss me."

Severus made a conscious effort to loosen his tensed muscles. Relaxing was not his forte, but he would do his best. Hermione chuckled at him.

"Don't laugh at me," he said dryly. "I know a Type A when I see one…you can't hide."

Her face lit with a smile. It was true; she was sometimes rotten at relaxing, as well. She knew this was much harder for him than it was for her, and she would have to be careful not to expect too much of him at first. Obviously she could not anticipate the relationship progressing rapidly. And that was all right – Hermione was in no rush. The last time she had jumped headlong into love had ended very, very painfully, and while it was true that neither she nor Ron was responsible for the mauling of her heart, it probably would not hurt to take things a little slower this time around. Oh, how Ron would roll in his grave if he knew what she was embarking upon…

Yet many things that had seemed impossible before the war had become abundantly possible. That was the nature of war; people had to pick a side, and sometimes it was surprising which one they chose. And in the aftermath, life was surreal for a while.

But this was real. She leaned down to kiss him softly and he responded perfectly, just brushing her lips. If her life was going to explode into another nonsensical fit of conflict, she was at least going to be with the man she wanted. And whatever was in that damned school below the sand that could send the world into a spiral was surely nothing compared to what they had collectively been through.


	13. Chapter 13

"You never answered my first question."

His pale eyebrows go up, and he looks at me long and hard. "You're intuitive, Lucius. Figure it out."

I stare at him. The Muggle tourists are standing at the façade of the temple, ogling and taking pictures. They truly do not see us. He has no wand that I can discern; I don't know how he can keep us out of sight, unless the temple is warded. There is some kind of magic here.

I break my stare with him. A sudden feeling descends upon me, the feeling of knowing that is just out of reach. There is something familiar about this place, about this man before me…

I remember in a vivid flash. The old Malfoy Cemetery, on the far southwest corner of the ancestral property…my great-great-grandfather's mausoleum…

* * *

_It was a Pantheon of sorts, a tribute to ancient Gods, and a place I had spent much time in my childhood. Perhaps it was morbid, but the mausoleum never felt like death to me. Rather, it had a curious, humming life about it; it was never dark, in spite of the lack of windows, never dank or cold even though England_ _is notoriously both…_

_My mother found me in the marble doorway one spring day. I was busily plucking the petals off a yellow chrysanthemum. They had so many petals that it kept me occupied for a while, and when the wind stirred the pile it blew them all into the mausoleum. They swirled around the old sarcophagus, whirring about like crazed pixies until they settled at the foot of the worn stone._

"_So this is where you always disappear to," she said softly._

"_I like it here." I grabbed another mum, pink this time. I half expected an admonishment about the flowers, but she said nothing. The petals were a vibrant magenta and the wind pushed them about her legs as she walked into the mausoleum._

"_Did our relatives worship these gods?" I asked. I knew nothing about them, but the carvings and frescoes were full of fantastic scenes._

"_Worship?" she said, and I can hear the laughter in her voice. "You know a Malfoy worships no one."_

_That was true – I did know that._

"_No, your great-great-grandfather was a bit of a character. He claimed that these ancient gods and goddesses were real, and that they visited him on a regular basis."_

_I stared at her. So he was crazy, is what it amounted to. "And…no one had him checked into St. Mungo's?" I asked._

_She smiled, an unusual occurrence by that time. "Don't think they didn't try. They could never get a mediwizard or mediwitch to declare him insane. Aside from his eccentric beliefs, he was completely normal – and twice as smart as the rest of his relatives."_

_Absorbing what she had said, I walked slowly around the mausoleum. One wall in particular caught my attention. It was a man, perfect in looks and proportion, his naked, muscled back to us. Strapped across it was a bow and arrows, and in his left hand he loosely held a lyre. However, it was his face that riveted me. I could only see half of it, by nature of his pose, but even in his profile, I could see the dual parts of his nature. He was equally benevolent and vengeful, perfect and imperfect…I didn't know how I understood this, but somehow I did. _

"_Who is he?" I asked._

"_He was your great-great-grandfather's favorite. He is Apollo, god of the sun…among other things."_

_I nodded. "How do you know all of this about him? Great-great-grandfather, I mean."_

"_Oh, he left behind quite a few journals. They make for interesting reading…in fact, I read some of them when I was pregnant with you."_

_Ah yes. For the last few months of the pregnancy she had been on bed rest, or so she was fond of telling me whenever I gave her problems. Jokingly, she would say, "You were trouble before you even came out." _

"_May I read them?" I questioned. It was summer break, and there was very little to do. I lived far from any school friends or cousins; not that my father would have let me play with them anyway. Sometimes I would sneak away to play with the muggle children, but I had not so far this summer. I was too afraid that my father would find out._

"_Of course," she said. "I'll find them when we get back to the house." She walked out of the mausoleum and stood near the flowers, staring at something I could not ever see or understand. I watched her for a few moments, wondering how long she would be lost in her own thoughts. She snapped out of it quite abruptly, turning around and giving me a fake smile. "Are you going to stay out, or come back with me?"_

"_I'll come back now," I answered, brushing flower petals from my clothing. Noticing the pink fragments, she added,_

"_Pick some of those chrysanthemums to put in a vase in the sitting room." Then she started back towards the house, which loomed so far across the lawns that it did not even seem like it was ours._

_I picked a dozen of the flowers, pink and yellow and white, while I thought about what I might read. Would it be the ravings of a madman, or would it be coolly logical? In my contemplation I was not paying attention to the flowers, and the last one had a bee in it. I gasped as it stung me, dropping the other stems. It hurt, but not terribly, and I was transfixed by the bee. It fell to the grass, twitching, and eventually it went still. I thought that it was strange for God to make such a creature…a creature that could only sting once. _

_A rustling noise behind me broke my trance. I whipped around, the bee's vacant flower still clutched in my reddening hand. It was my mother._

"_What happened? I thought you were going to follow me. Oh, you've been stung…does it hurt?"_

_I shook my head mutely, and did not hear any more of her words. I was looking past her. Up on the softly sloping hill that led to the Manor, there was a man. It was him…the one from the frescoe. It was Apollo. He stood perfectly still and though he was far away, I knew he was looking at me._

_My mother was scraping the stinger out of my hand. I wondered if the bee's venom had somehow made me crazy. Closing my eyes against the sharp pain as she coaxed the stinger out, I willed him to disappear. And he did; when I opened my eyes, there was no one on the hill. He was gone…if he had ever been there in the first place._

* * *

"Apollo. You were really there that day."

An expression of approval brightens his face. "Good memory."

The realization makes something ugly rear up inside me. "Why did you never appear to me after that? My great-great-grandfather asked you to protect my family."

I had read as much in his journals during that long, boring summer. I had not believed any of it at the time; he had no solid proof to offer and I had been raised only to trust what I could see, feel, and touch. But the truth of that moment on the grounds many years ago was obvious now. And it made me angry…angry in a way I had not felt in a long time.

"I would say you have been a little remiss in that duty," I bite off. He was a god…a god!...he could have changed things, made things different…at the very least prevented the suffering of my brother and mother…

His expression turns hard. "Are you dead?"

I shake my head.

"Imprisoned?"

"No."

"Insane?"

My eyes narrow. "Sometimes I wonder."

"Does your son live?"

I nod.

"And your line carries on?"

"Yes."

"Then you are protected, my ungrateful friend."

I shake my head and sit down, my legs dangling off the high wall of the temple. There is a pause between us. After a few moments he speaks again, his tone softened.

"You did not want to see me. You did not want to believe I was real."

I say nothing. I would have believed anything, anything at all, if I was just given proof. The quality or relevance of the proof did not matter. That was what had gotten me in trouble so long ago…the desperation to believe that _something_ in the world made sense.

"We cannot become too involved in the affairs of mortals," he continues. "I would have done more, if I could have, but such things meet with disapproval."

Exasperated, I ask, "Then why am I here now?"

"Well, for one thing, neither of us is ready for you to be dead. And for another, this is an exceptional situation."

"Exceptional how?" I turn to face him, my anger momentarily cooled.

"The school."

I wince. There are too many things in my head. What does the school have to do with anything?

"You see, Lucius, there are a few things you need to understand…you and I…we are not so different."

"What do you mean?"

For the first time, he looks like he is at a loss for words. He rubs his jaw, thinking. "Answer me this. When you learn about the history of magic, who do they tell you was the first true wizard?"

I roll my eyes. "Merlin. Everyone knows that."

He shakes his head. "Wrong."

"Enlighten me, then, if historical scholars are wrong."

"I will tell you what Merlin was…Merlin was the first wizard to live and die among humans. He was the first _mortal_ wizard."

I blink. "Mortal…then you mean to say that there are _immortal_ wizards?"

"You're looking at one."

If I thought my head was full before, it is near to exploding now. "But…you're a god…there's a difference!"

"No," he shakes his head emphatically, "there isn't."

* * *

A knock sounded at Draco's door. It was early, but sleep had not been easy in coming and he had spent the greater part of the morning laying uselessly in his bed. Groaning, he got up, spent a second to smooth down his crazed hair, and opened the door.

"Good morning." It was Cyrus. He had another man with him, a wiry, sun-weathered gentleman of about fifty.

"Good is debatable," Draco mumbled, standing aside to admit them.

"Mornings are always good," said the newcomer in a slight accent. "It means you have lived to see another day."

"Yes, but it certainly is easier to face the day when you've had a little sleep, Leo," Cyrus said, casting Draco an apologetic look. The other man shrugged. He reminded Draco of a stubborn uncle – not that he would know, because he had none.

"Forgive my straightforwardness, then," Cyrus's companion said. "I am Leonidas Andropoulos, but I have been told that is quite a mouthful, so you can call me Leo."

Draco shook his outstretched hand. "Draco Malfoy."

"Leo is here to assist with finding your father," Cyrus said. "He is a language expert. I'm hoping he can find a way to understand our werewolf so that we can know exactly what happened when your father was attacked."

"Do you think it's possible?" Draco asked, his interest piqued.

Leo raised his bushy eyebrows. "Anything is possible. It is time that is the problem; I cannot say how long it will take."

"Well, I would rather work against the clock than do nothing. I'm guessing you need my assistance somehow?"

Cyrus nodded. "Yes…there is something curious about the school. It has an extensive security system, and in our exploration we discovered that the only one who could properly deactivate it was your father."

Draco frowned. That was odd. What was it about his father that set him apart? Draco tried to think of something, anything about his father that made him different, but he drew a blank. A pureblood? No, there were other purebloods on the site. A former Death Eater? No, Snape was, too, and he could not operate the security system. He could think of nothing else.

"So we can only work with the rooms he already opened?" he asked.

Cyrus and Leo exchanged a look. "That may be the case," Cyrus admitted. "But we want you to come with us and try to operate the security system. We're hoping that maybe you'll be able to do it, too."

"It makes no sense," Draco said, shaking his head.

"Not much of this expedition has," Cyrus replied. "Will you come with us, though?"

"Of course."

"All right. We'll give you a half hour to properly wake up and get some breakfast. Meet us by the entrance." Cyrus and Leo stood and moved toward the door.

"No," Draco said, reaching for the t-shirt he had thrown off the night before. "Wait. I'll come now."

* * *

Lupin watched her as she crouched by the water's edge collecting seashells. The girl – Lilith – seemed disinclined to stray too far from him. He did not know why, but he could guess that perhaps she thought the others were angry at her for hurting Lucius. None of them were; he knew that for a fact. She was just a child, and no one could blame her for what she had done under the moon's influence. Somehow, that blame only came after one became an adult. But of course he could not convey that to her.

He chuckled as she found a shell that was still occupied. Surprised, she dropped it, but then picked it up carefully and examined it. Catherine, the mediwitch, had said that biologically she was about twelve years old. It was amazing that in reality she was going on two thousand years old. She had lost interest in the hermit crab, apparently, for now she was slowly inching towards the entrance of the school. Nervously, she looked back at him and he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. She tentatively moved closer, and Remus stood, stretching, and followed.

Lilith stopped about a yard from the fissure. Cyrus, Leo, and Draco were walking towards them. As they got closer, she lost her courage and retreated behind him. He understood; he felt a certain veiled negativity from Cyrus in particular – the man did not like werewolves. Amazingly, Draco had thus far been incredibly calm and kind to Lilith. He had not expected that, but it was obvious that the Malfoy heir had changed a lot in the last few years.

"Good morning," Remus said amiably as they approached.

"Good morning to you," Leo returned. "This must be Lilith."

The girl peered out from behind his arm at the mention of her name. Leo knelt down to her height, smiling, and said, "_Kalimera_." Her brow furrowed; she did not understand, but some of her shyness evaporated. Leo was pleasant, and that was good since he was going to be spending a lot of time with her.

The wiry man stood, brushing the sand off his knees. "She has taken quite a liking to you," he said, nodding at Remus. "You have a way with children."

"I doubt it has anything to do with my 'way'," Remus said. "She thinks I can protect her."

Leo shrugged, looking smug and like he knew something that Lupin didn't. Turning to Cyrus, he said, "Take me into the school."

The three men moved off. Lilith slowly moved to stand by his side. Dumbledore had once made that same comment to him during that fateful year he had taught at Hogwarts. He hated hearing things like that. He could never have children, no matter how good a father he would make – not unless he wanted another person to suffer like he had. He couldn't do that in good conscience…he couldn't.

Lilith tugged at his hand, and he looked down at her. She was smiling, and a trifle mischievously at that. She began to pull him eagerly towards the shoreline a moment later. Merlin, the little thing was stronger than she looked! Or maybe he was just tired from the Wolfsbane. Remus shook his head; he did not like going _into_ the ocean, looking at it was quite enough for him, he was not the best swimmer and these weren't even his clothes…!

But it occurred to him that he was not trying very hard to resist her. It was all right. He had forgotten how simple twelve could be. By twelve, he had already been more of an adult than many of his schoolmates.

The water was warmer than he thought it would be. He ducked under a small wave, enjoying the floating sensation, and when he came up Lilith splashed him. Shaking the water out of his face, he dove after her. All told, he was probably flopping around in a very uncoordinated and thoroughly amusing way, but he did not care. He was laughing in a way he had not since those days of marauding and roughhousing with Sirius, James, and even Peter…strange, awkward, deceitful Peter.

Lilith was laughing too, moving gracefully through the water to get away from him. He got the sense, suddenly, that it was all right. It was going to _be_ all right.

* * *

Severus was awakened by a rough jab in the ribs.

"Oof…what?" he said groggily.

"You were snoring."

It was too early in the morning for him to control his snark. "Have you _seen_ my nose prior to this moment, dearest?"

Hermione laughed. "I have. Next time I'll just punch you in the nose instead of the ribs…maybe a good break would put your septum right."

"I have heard you have a talent for breaking noses."

"I can't imagine where you heard that," she said, smiling to herself as she got out of bed. This was going better than expected. She had tried, really tried, not to wake him up, but snoring drove her crazy and it was almost ten, anyway. And even after a knock in the ribs, he was being…sociable.

And why shouldn't he be? She had spent half the previous night kissing him. Few men could argue with that.

* * *

Joeri nodded at Anatole and Nick as he walked past the breakfast tables. Anatole gave the large man a quick wave. Nick tried to say something, forgetting that his mouth was full, which resulted in bits of food hitting the table and his breakfast partner. Anatole laughed, wiping flecks of muffin off his chest. He could swear that he heard Joeri chuckling to himself.

People at the site had gotten used to the presence of two muggles, apparently. No one questioned their coming and going anymore, and some of the crew even greeted them and stopped to talk to them. Even Cyrus seemed to be coming around slowly. Though he had asked them, rather curtly, "Don't you two have jobs?"

They both did, but things were disrupted since the earthquake. The restaurant that Nick's family owned was closed because part of the roof had caved in, and the office building Anatole worked in still had no electricity or plumbing. So, really, there was nothing else to do but wander down to the beach every day and continue to be amazed at everything that went on.

Nick looked up from the remnants of his muffin as Dawn passed by. She had been quiet since the werewolf attack. It was obvious that she was depressed over Lucius, but no one had really talked to her about it. Draco was diligently looking for his father; Hermione and Snape were engaged in their own decidedly wordless dialogue since returning, and he was sure that Dawn was the furthest thing from their minds.

"Someone should try to comfort Dawn," he said, brushing crumbs from his lips.

"Go ahead," Anatole said, shrugging.

Nick shook his head. "I don't want it to seem like I'm trying to move in on her when Lucius is gone."

"It won't."

"I don't think it's a good idea. Maybe you should talk to her."

"Why should I comfort the woman that _you_ like?"

"Just do it!" Nick barked, his fist thumping on the table.

"Fine!" Anatole said, rising from the table. "Relax."

* * *

Dawn looked up as Anatole took a seat next to her on the sand.

"Hey," she murmured.

"Hey," he replied. "How are you holding up?"

She shrugged. "Ok, I suppose."

"Nick was worried about you."

A small smile lifted her lips. "Then why isn't he here?"

Anatole rolled his eyes. "He was worried that people would think he was trying to make a move on you while Lucius was missing and you were vulnerable."

"Would he?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No way. He's a loyal guy…even to people that don't like him, and vice versa."

"Are you like that, too?"

Anatole looked at the sand. "I try to be."

There was a silence, and then Dawn said, "You haven't given up on Hermione."

"Would it do her justice if I did?"

"I don't know."

Another silence stretched between them. They were creating a fine mess, to be sure, with all these overlapping infatuations…and they knew it.

"Do you miss Lucius?" he asked quietly.

Dawn nodded. "I try not to. I try to be strong. It's funny how you end up being just like all the people you thought were ridiculous in their obsession with each other. Though…I doubt the obsession goes both ways."

"Why is that?" Anatole questioned, frowning.

"Draco - his son - told me he was a bit of a playboy. Not really a one-woman man, if you know what I mean."

"That might be so, but it seems to me and Nick that he really cares about you."

"I'm sure he does…for now."

Chewing his lip, Anatole thought for a few moments. "I know Draco had his reasons to say what he said, but I would leave the decision to Lucius. Don't assume that he's going to love you and leave you based on what someone else thinks. I guess…just trust him."

"Trust him?" she said with an odd laugh. "I forget sometimes that you're not a wizard. Let's just say…that Lucius does not really have the track record of a man that one should trust."

"Then you might as well give up now."

"It's too late for that," Dawn sighed. "I've tried not to love him, I really have. But that sort of thing never works."

It was Anatole's turn to sigh. "I know. I know."

* * *

"This is the moment of truth, I suppose," Cyrus said, sighing and putting his hands on his hips. Nothing in any of the classrooms had been of much use; most were filled with nothing but dust. The best they had were the labels on the magical creatures in the room they'd found Lilith in, and that was not nearly enough for Leo to constructeven arudimentary grasp of her language.

"What if it doesn't work?" Draco asked. The door before them looked solid and whatever was behind it was clearly of some importance. The security panel glowed innocuously, and once again they were all amazed that it still worked after so many years.

"Then we are stuck," Leo said. "But stuck is not forever."

Draco shook his head. Stuck was not forever, but death was, and he was beginning to lose his confidence in his assertion that his father was alive.

"Well, here goes."

He placed his hand over the glowing panel. It scanned and scanned and scanned; he tried to ignore the emotions that were cycling through him, but it was impossible. It was like all the things he had feared when he was younger were returning. Fear of inadequacy, of losing, of being able to do nothing…nothing helpful, anyway. That was what had terrified him when he was a child. It was partially his father's doing; Lucius Malfoy expected perfection, or as close to perfection as was humanly possible. He never raised a hand to Draco, not once, but sometimes the fear and the guilt he exacted was worse.

He wasn't like that anymore. God, he missed the bastard, and he'd spent no more than a day in his company. Draco's hand was beginning to feel heavy. It felt like minutes were passing, endless minutes.

Suddenly they were plunged into murky darkness as the light from the panel went out.

"What does that mean?" Draco asked, barely resisting the urge to pull his hand away.

"Stay still!" Cyrus urged. "Give it another moment!"

For a tense minute no one breathed. Then, mercifully, the old, heavy door began to move.

"Thank the Lord!" Cyrus nearly cried, looking happier than he had looked in days.

"I don't know how it works," Leo said, shaking his head, "but it works!" He began to walk eagerly towards the dark slice of floor that was now visible beyond the doorway.

"Wait!" Draco said. "We don't know what's in there. It's probably nothing, but shouldn't we have our wands out?"

"Yes, we should," Cryus agreed, catching Leo by the arm. "You first, Malfoy."

Draco gave him a look but took out his wand. He did not miss the fact that Leo had no wand to draw; he was a squib, then.

"All right. Here goes." He toed the door open and stepped over the threshold. He was in a small, musty hallway; he could see and hear nothing. After a few moments of stillness, he gestured for Cyrus and Leo to follow.

The hallway was long and claustrophobically narrow. His eyes were watering from the dust and the cobwebs. _Was_ there a room at the end of this, or was it just a passage to somewhere else?

Draco stopped short when a sound tickled his ear. Many sounds, actually; like several people talking at once, but at different volumes. A dim light shone around the next corner.

"What do you think that is?" Draco whispered.

Cyrus looked at Leo; the squib shrugged, but did not look frightened. Feeding off his courage, Cyrus murmured, "Let us find out."

The two wizards lunged around the corner at the same time, wands raised and spells ready. But the room was empty. Empty, except for a large basin on the far wall that had strange wisps of silver floating above it.

Leo was already one step ahead of them. "A pensieve!" he gasped, walking to it as if magnetically drawn. "An early pensieve!"

Draco watched one of the silver wisps float away from the bowl. An odd chill went through him as it began to undulate and expand. Faces were visible, blurred and macabre in the mist, and whispers surrounded them.

"What is it doing?" Cyrus asked, alarmed.

"It is old," Leo said, his voice still full of awe. "Too old. The contents are becoming unstable."

Life-size figures played out a memory around them, vague and shapeless like ghosts. They could not understand the speech, but it was clear that it was not a pleasant memory. It cycled twice; the three figures, two of which were large and the other small, seemed to be arguing. After two cycles, it began to dissipate. Looking up, Draco spied a crack in the ceiling.

"The memories are venting out," he said, pointing.

"Incredible," Leo murmured.

"There have to be cabins above this place…or at least there must have been before the earthquake," Cyrus said. He snapped his fingers a moment later. "Hermione! Your friend Hermione was having terrible nightmares before you arrived. But I think…if these memories were filtering into her cabin…they were not nightmares."

"They were memories," Draco finished. "What were they?"

"One was a little girl crying on the beach, and the other was the same girl being attacked and killed by a werewolf. Or so we thought."

"Then these must be the girl's memories. Lilith's memories," Leo said. "If only they were not so degraded!"

"Maybe the ones that are still inside are intact," Draco suggested.

Leo nodded. "Yes. I will find out."

"Leo, you can't just—" Cyrus began. But Leo had already stuck his nose nearly into the pensieve, and it was clear that he was experiencing something. Whether or not that something was a coherent memory, they did not know.

* * *

He was standing next to Lilith. She was inside the door they had just unlocked, clinging to the frame with white knuckles. She looked highly troubled; she was biting her lip so forcefully that Leo feared she might draw blood.

Voices came to him. Two men, arguing.

"It has to be them, Ambrose."

"I cannot let myself believe it. How? How did they find us?"

"We have lost too many people in this fight. We must disband the school!"

"Baltasar, we cannot go disbanding the school at the mere possibility of danger! These children need to learn to control their abilities!"

"They cannot do that if they are dead, Ambrose!"

The other man's voice rose in a dangerous rumble. "Do not speak of it!"

"I must! They spare no one. No one!"

"There is no evidence that it is her parents!"

Leo started at the sound of someone pounding a fist on wood.

"You are not blind, Ambrose. Read her records. This girl has been to six different schools in the last year. Four of those schools had our compatriots working at them. All four of them are dead, along with most of their pupils!"

Leo's eyes widened. Lilith's parents – somehow they had been involved in all these killings? Lilith's eyes were filling with tears as she peered around the corner. Leo followed, at last laying eyes on the two men.

The one called Ambrose was hunched over a desk, his hands balled into fists. The other, Baltasar, a huge bear of a man, was pacing nervously. Ambrose's face was pained when he at last looked up.

"How can I explain it to her?"

Baltasar stopped his pacing. "I know you love her like she is your own, Ambrose. But you must know if she is part of it."

"She is not. She is too innocent."

"Even children can act."

"She is NOT involved!" His fist thumped on the desk again. "She has lamented to me again and again how they would constantly uproot her from schools. All she wants is to learn. She is too young to understand their motives!" Baltasar sighed.

"Nevertheless," he said more gently, "you must speak to her about it."

"It will break her heart," Ambrose lamented. "She has been asking me when she can go outside…when she can see her parents again."

Baltasar placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "My friend, she is probably better off with you. You have already done more for her than many would have done. Especially in her…current state."

After a moment, Ambrose nodded. "You're right." Gathering himself, he said, "This cannot go on. I would not be able to bear it if anything happened to our students. Send notice to the parents and prepare the children to go home. As of this moment, we are closed."

Baltasar looked relieved. "Thank you, Ambrose, thank you!" The large man turned to exit the room, but stopped at the last moment. "Once the children are gone…you should probably retire to somewhere safe. It is you that they're looking for…you and your recipes."

"I know." He sighed. "It is most unfortunate that people always find a way to misuse our advances."

Baltasar smiled wryly. "Good luck with Lilith."

Ambrose shook his head and sighed. "I will need it."

Leo looked back at Lilith. She had sunk down against the wall; tears were streaming down her face. He wondered: how exactly did one tell a little girl that her parents were murderers?

He did not get to find out, because a moment later the gut-wrenching sensation of the memory ending pulled him away.

* * *

Cyrus caught Leo as he stumbled away from the pensieve; he could not handle such strong magic the way a normal witch or wizard could, and it often made him disoriented. This time was no exception.

"What did you see?" Draco asked.

Taking a deep breath and rubbing his temples, Leo replied, "Two men arguing. Their names were Ambrose and Baltasar. They were involved in running the school and believed it was in danger…in fact, they believed that Lilith's parents were involved in a string of murders at other schools."

Cyrus frowned. "And Lilith?"

"They believed she was innocent of it all. Just a pawn to get into the schools…to get familiar."

"Why were they killing people at these schools? There had to be a reason," Draco asked, confused.

"Baltasar said something about recipes…I guess he meant potions. Then Ambrose said that people were somehow misusing their advances…so they must have created something that could be used for good or for ill."

"And those who wanted to use it for ill would resort to murder."

Leo nodded. "And not just adults. They said that the children were killed, too."

"Oh dear," Cyrus sighed. "It would appear that we have stumbled onto an unknown war."

Draco looked at his feet. "Well, Severus and Hermione both said that they were told that whatever was down here was potentially world-changing."

The three men were silent for a long time.

"There is only one solution," Leo said after a while.

"What's that?" Cyrus asked, looking tired.

"We must know more." Leo smiled and then headed back to the pensieve for a second round.

* * *

Author's Note: _Kalimera _Good morning (in Greek) 


	14. Chapter 14

"I don't understand," I said. "Are you saying that…all the gods and goddesses…the Pantheon…you're all just…wizards and witches?"

Apollo nodded.

"Wizards and witches who…never die?"

He nods again. "Nothing has managed to kill us yet. Not the Romans…the Inquisition…the Crusades…"

I stand up. My head still feels near to bursting. I hardly realize that I have begun to pace. "So…so what you are telling me is that if I decided to use the killing curse on you right now, right this minute, it would do nothing. It would have no effect."

He rolls his eyes. "Blast Ares for ever inventing it. But you're right, it would have no effect."

I take out my wand. "You swear to me?"

"Oh, for the love of….do you really need that much proof?"

I look at him and he looks at me. Then his shoulders sag and he sighs. "It's damaging to your soul, you know. Destroys a little piece of you each time you use it, whether it's on target or not."

I know that well enough. I haven't used it since the final battle. My brain is screaming at me that I need proof, that it could all be a lie designed to trick me, but my hand and voice waver. Am I still that same man? A man who can believe nothing on simple faith? The word seems so out of place in my mind. Faith…

I sit back down. I am not going to use that Unforgivable Curse again. It will be difficult for me to accept, but I am not going to backtrack like that. I am despondent, irate, and utterly lost at the same time. A lifetime of mistrust, of paranoia, of conspiracies and secret societies…it is very, very hard for me to accept this man…this _god_…on his word.

Sighing, I spit a question to the vast blue sky. "So what about…Him? You know…God. What is He?"

Apollo shuffles over and sits next to me. He looks no less regal with his legs dangling off the edge of the temple. "I can't speak for Him…Her…It." He shrugs. "But I can tell you this. For all our power, all our longevity…there are still things in this world that we cannot explain."

* * *

"So…they weren't dreams?" Hermione asked, her brow wrinkling in the particular way it did when she couldn't immediately put two and two together.

Draco shook his head. "They were memories."

"How is that possible?" Snape asked, his brows descending in a similar fashion. He was standing just behind Hermione, his arms crossed.

"There is a pensieve in the school."

Snape's eyebrows went the other way. "A _pensieve_?" he exclaimed.

"But they weren't invented until 1437!" Hermione said at the same time.

"Apparently they were around long before that," Draco said, shrugging. "We just never found one."

"But even if there is a pensieve, how could I be seeing its contents if I'm up here and it's down there?" Hermione asked.

"Leo said that it was so old that the contents were becoming unstable. The memories were filtering out of the room through a crack in the ceiling. We checked it out and the room is directly under where your cabin was prior to the earthquake."

"So they were Lilith's memories!" Hermione said, nodding as it began to make sense.

"How come Dawn never experienced any of them, then, if they were just filtering into the cabin?" Snape questioned, ever skeptical.

"I guess Hermione was the closest," Draco said. "And Dawn was probably spending a fair amount of time in my father's cabin before the werewolf incident. Anyway, the memories are degrading, so Leo and Cyrus are trying to view as many of them as possible before they fall apart."

"You didn't offer to help them?" Severus asked.

"No," Draco said, shaking his head. "The memories are all old…from before. None of them will be useful in finding my father."

"They might be useful in finding a great deal of other things, though, if this primitive pensieve is any indication!" Hermione said. Both Slytherins could see the light of excitement in her eyes. Harry and Ron had feared and loved that look in the past; it invariably meant they were in for an adventure.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm going to go see if I can open any more rooms down there."

Severus nodded. Hermione was still deep in thought and did not even hear him. Draco gave Snape a sympathetic look and then sauntered out of the cabin.

* * *

Severus let her stay in her intellectual daze for a few minutes. Yes, it was certainly true that the discovery of an early pensieve – one that eclipsed their former time of invention by a thousand years, easily – was amazing. But it was Hermione's words and her excitement that were bothering him.

Hephaestus had said that they should leave that school well alone. That obviously was not happening. Hera had warned that something momentous was down there, and Severus was a thousand percent sure it was not the pensieve.

"Hermione?" he said, touching her shoulder gently.

She started and craned her neck to look at him. "What?"

"Did you ever consider…that sometimes things are better left undiscovered?"

She stared at him for a moment and then stood up from her chair. She paced a few times, back and forth, and then stopped. "No. No, I hadn't."

"If people just…just controlled their curiosity, especially when warned to stay clear of things…then terrible things wouldn't happen," he said.

"Something always happens, Severus," she replied, shaking her head. "It might not be that terrible thing, but it always has to be something, and that something could be worse."

"Or better."

She blinked, looking as if he was speaking Polish to her. "The point is, something will always happen and we can never truly know what it will be, so there is no good reason that we shouldn't try to find every little secret that is in that school."

"What if those secrets are horrific? What if they will haunt us for the rest of our lives?"

"More horrific than what we've been through? More haunting than what we've already experienced?" Her voice was rising steadily. "Tell me, what could possibly top me seeing the love of my young life being disemboweled by Voldemort?"

Snape winced. The last thing he had wanted to remind her of was Ronald Weasley. But he had seen it, too, and it had been pretty awful. Maybe she was right. Maybe nothing could top what they had experienced. And yet he still had a feeling about this school…this place…

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No," she said, blinking back tears. "I get it. I get what you're trying to say. But Severus…I know…that everything I experienced, all the horror, the pain, the heartbreak…it's miniscule compared to what you went through."

He shook his head. "Most of it was self-inflicted. That doesn't count."

"If I were you," she said, "I wouldn't be afraid of anything."

"For once, Hermione Granger, you've got it all wrong." It was his turn to pace, and he did so, eventually stopping to lean on the window frame and look out at the idyllic beach scene. "The more you face adversity, the more you fear it will return again."

* * *

"There must be millions of you," I say. "Millions. Where do you hide?"

"Hide?" Apollo replies. "I would not say that we hide; more that we like to keep things mysterious. We stick to the untouched places in this world. There are not many anymore, but they suit us."

"Where in this world is untouched?" I exclaim. "Antarctica?"

He chuckles. "There are places. Besides, there are fewer of us than you think."

"If you never die, and your children never die, and their children never die…you just keep reproducing. How can there be fewer than I think?"

Apollo examined his fingernails. "Since Merlin, all of our children have been mortal."

I turn to look at him. "What?"

"You heard me correctly. Ever since Merlin died, all of our children eventually die, as well. No one can explain it. That's why most of us have stopped reproducing. With each other, anyway."

"That's…awful," I say. I can just imagine what it had been like for the first children produced after Merlin. When you're mortal you know that eventually you and everyone around you are going to die. Apollo hadn't known that. They had all been so used to living forever; it had to be crushing to realize that every moment counted, because those moments were numbered.

"It was difficult, but we adjusted." His face is tense as he says it.

"But you're stuck with the same people forever. Don't you get lonely?" I ask.

"There is no one on this great planet, and I'm fairly sure no one in this universe, that I would rather be lonely and 'stuck' with," he said. The tension leaks out of his face and he smiles. "My family may all be mad, and we may occasionally have our spats, but they are my family. No amount of time can change the bond we have."

I grimace. I cannot imagine spending eternity with my family, rest their twisted souls – not even the ones I sort of liked.

"You're kind of right, though," Apollo says. "About there being millions of us."

"You just told me I was wrong. How am I right?"

"Well, think about it. Mortal wizards like yourself came from somewhere."

"From Merlin."

"And Merlin came from us. So, in a way, we do never stop reproducing."

"Do you mean to say that every witch and wizard is descended from one of you?"

"Not all, but most," he said, shrugging. "We can't account for the Muggle-borns at times. Usually one or both of the parents has some small inkling of wizard blood; it's just too little to be expressed. For some reason, it seems to rejuvenate in the child. Others are just complete mysteries. Another thing we can't explain."

Few things had ever boggled my mind, but at this moment, I was boggled. "So…what does that mean?"

"It means," the god said, "that muggle-borns could be the next step in the evolutionary process of witches and wizards. Either that, or they are just pure anomalies and there really is no meaning."

I am unsure what my face looks like as I digest this information. First of all, I am talking to a god about evolution. That is strange enough. But…muggle-borns, the next step in the evolution of witches and wizards? I can see how it is possible; there have always been too few pureblood families. After enough generations, it seems that nearly everyone is related in some way. This, of course, led to inbreeding, be it as direct as first cousins or as indirect as third cousins' grand nephew twice removed. I don't know if that's actually possible, but it was the only example I could come up with on short notice – and it is merely common sense that dictates that inbreeding weakens blood, no matter how pure it is. So…is it possible? Are muggle-borns nature's way of saving wizardkind?

I am surprised my head hasn't exploded yet.

* * *

From the moment Leo entered the memory, he knew it was different from the others. Aside from the first one that he viewed, many of the memories in the pensieve had been happy. There were memories of Lilith's parents, whom he learned were named Jonas and Eugenia. He could see that they loved their daughter, but also feared her; as far as he could tell from the memories, neither of them could do magic.

There were also many memories of Ambrose, the man he had seen in the first memory. He was now able to piece together the story, based on Hermione's recall of her pseudo-dreams and the information in the pensieve. Lilith had only just begun to attend the school that Ambrose and Baltasar ran when her parents made the decision to withdraw her and move away. She had run away from them upon hearing this, coming to the only place she knew – apparently they had not been in Greece long, either. The school was closed; it was not a boarding school so there was no one there at night. That was when Lilith was attacked by the werewolf. It had not been intelligent to sleep on the beach during the full moon, but Lilith knew little of the wizarding world and had never been warned against werewolves.

It had been Ambrose who had taken her in. The others, including Baltasar, wanted to kill her where they found her. They reasoned that it would have been the kindest thing they could do. Ambrose had not agreed, and ignoring the rest of them, he sheltered her in the school.

What followed was a brief, intense attachment. Leo could not figure out if Ambrose had children, but he certainly treated Lilith like his own daughter. And she, long starved for stability or a true, magical mentor, responded in kind.

But this memory…this was different. After so many happy scenes, full of Ambrose's eyes and smile and gentle approval, this was different. His face was strained, pale, and his eyes hollow.

"Lilith," he said, his voice rough, "you must go in your case tonight."

The girl turned around, her eyes confused. "But…it is not the moon yet!"

"I know," he said gravely. "But you must. It is the only way you will be safe."

"Safe?" she asked. Her face underwent a transformation the next moment, going from confusion to outright terror. "Are…are my parents coming after me?" she whispered. She had developed a fear of them since she had learned, undoubtedly, that they were involved in the deaths of many witches and wizards. No one yet knew how, since they were not magical, but it was certain that the hundreds that were turning up dead had not killed themselves.

Ambrose's blue eyes threatened to brim over. "Maybe," he said softly. "I can't be sure."

"Are they coming for you?" she questioned a moment later, her lip quivering.

He closed his eyes in the way that people often did when they were praying for help. "Yes," he replied. "I think they are."

"You must leave!" she cried, running over and throwing her arms around him. "Put me in the case and leave!"

His arms rested around her shoulders. He was holding onto her as if she was a buoy in the middle of a vast ocean, the only thing that could keep him from drowning. "I can't," he said at last.

"Why not?" Lilith was crying now, her eyes red and puffy.

"Lilith, my dear…I am the reason that this war started."

Leo felt his eyebrows rise and he walked a slow circle around the two of them. Ambrose was the cause? It didn't make any sense; thus far, he and the other witches and wizards seemed to be the victims.

After a shocked silence, Lilith whispered, "What do you mean?"

Ambrose released her and began to pace around the small room. "Long before I met you, Lilith, I knew other lycanthropes. My brother and his young son were attacked by werewolves nearly twenty years ago. The son – my nephew – died from the wounds, but my brother survived and was turned into a lycanthrope. I saw what he went through after that. I saw his misery, his hatred. It did not matter what he was before, or what he had done. He was simply…a creature to them after the attack. One not worthy of love or care or even respect. His wife left him and took away his other children. Most of our family acted as if he had never existed."

"That's terrible." Lilith's hand was over her mouth, and tears dripped freely down her cheeks. "I…is that what would have happened to me?"

Ambrose looked at his boots. "I will be honest. When we found you...many of the teachers wanted to kill you. You were very badly injured, anyway, and they wanted to save you from that misery."

"I have never been miserable here. Never."

"I know," he said, managing a ghost of a smile. "But if you were anywhere else, it would not be the same."

"Thank you," she said, embracing him once again. His hand absently stroked her hair and eventually rested on the crown of her head.

"I made a promise to my brother," he continued. "I promised I would find a way to cure him."

She nodded against his chest.

"I tried and tried and tried, but nothing seemed to work. After three years of failed attempts, he took his own life."

Lilith looked up sharply, her face full of pain. "At least you tried!" she said emphatically, clutching the front of his robes. "From what you tell me, that is more than anyone else would have done."

Ambrose nodded. "After his death, I became obsessed with finding a cure. I spent three more years of my life bent over a cauldron. I did have some success, but I could never quite find the precise formulation. Then Baltasar came to me, proposing that we start a school, and I could not refuse. I could not refuse the chance to instill tolerance in the next generation of wizards and witches, among other things."

Lilith frowned. It was obvious, judging by her expression, that there was still very little tolerance.

"As the school flourished I began to forget about my obsession. I thought I had done my best, given my all to find that cure, and if I could not find it then it was simply not meant to be found." He hugged her gently, kissing the top of her head. "Then you came along."

The girl looked up. "You began working on it again?"

"Yes. I…you are very dear to me, Lilith, and I did not want to see one so young and innocent suffer as my brother had."

"I don't understand," she murmured. "I don't understand how this means you are the cause of the war."

"I did it, Lilith."

Leo's jaw dropped. He did it? _He found a cure for lycanthropy!_

Lilith had a similar reaction. "You…you found a cure?" she exclaimed, her face filling with joy. "What is the problem with that? How can anyone start a war over that?"

"The potion has some…side effects."

Her face fell slightly. "What kind of side effects?"

"I went too far, Lilith. It doesn't just cure lycanthropy. It…it removes all magic from the user."

Leo needed to sit down. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. That was definitely something that could start a war. But with who? Who wanted that potion recipe? Surely wizards would not…neutralize other wizards? What would be the point in that?

"Oh my God."

"Yes. I know. But I…I know there are some lycanthropes and other groups who would rather become squibs than live with their conditions and still be able to use magic, so I was ready to release it for medicinal use. That was when the killing began."

"They want the formula?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Yes."

"Who? Who is doing this? And why kill all those innocent people?"

"I don't know who, Lilith, but I do not think that this is just about the potion."

"What do you mean?" Her face was a map of confusion and despair.

Ambrose looked uncomfortable, as if what he wanted to say would either greatly upset her or cause her to laugh at him. But now was clearly the time for disclosure. "I think…I think this is a movement against the magical community in general. I don't think it's about the potion, as much as it is about the potion making their goal a lot easier."

"You mean…muggles?"

He nodded gravely. "Muggles…with the aid of some crooked witches and wizards. How else could they know where the schools and communities are? How else could they know how to kill us?"

"But _why_?" she demanded. Her eyes were filling with tears again.

He knelt down so that he could look directly into her eyes. His hands cupped her face. "People have always feared what they could not understand. We know that, little one," he said quietly. "Those few witches and wizards that are assisting the muggles are probably peddling their own agenda – they want control of the magical world. And what better way than to manipulate muggles? They will lash out at anything if they perceive it to be threatening…"

Lilith looked at her feet. "At least…at least with the potion they would not be killing people!" she cried.

"No," he agreed, "it would not kill people, but it would enslave them. Which is worse?"

Leo understood what Ambrose meant, even if Lilith could not. Those few witches and wizards who would be left would, effectively, be able to take control of the entire world. With no other wizards to stand in their way, the world was helpless. Muggles and squibs could not hope to fight back, particularly if these power-hungry wizards indulged in dark magic. And given their betrayal of their own kind, and the bloodshed that was quickly growing larger and more widespread, they probably did.

Lilith had gone silent.

"Do you understand now, little one?" Ambrose asked, pushing a piece of her hair behind her ear.

She nodded. "What will you do with the potion?" There was a small note of hope in her voice.

"If you wanted it…I could not give it to you, not now. I destroyed what I brewed, and I will take the recipe with me to the death. I have erased Baltasar's memory of the formulation. But…I created it for you, Lilith, and if…if you still want it after this all blows over…if you want to sacrifice your magic for a normal life…I will give you the recipe. When it is safe, you can brew it."

"When will it be safe?" she questioned, glancing warily at the display case she stayed in during her transformations.

"I don't know," Ambrose sighed. "But when it is, Baltasar or myself will come and free you, and you can make your choice then. Now…are you ready to hear the formula?"

Lilith nodded.

"Do not put this in your pensieve," Ambrose said, his voice taking on an edge. "You must remember it in your head, or all these efforts will be in vain."

"Thank you," the girl whispered. "Thank you for going through all this trouble for me."

"Ah, my dear," he said, his face softening, "it is only trouble when people choose to make it so."

Leo felt a burst of frustration as the memory began to blur and he felt himself floating upwards. Of course they would not have put the formula in the pensieve; then anyone who wandered into the school could have stumbled upon it. It was obvious, given the fact that Lilith had been in her display case for over a thousand years, that Ambrose and Baltasar had not lived through the war. So, as far as anyone knew in the years that followed, the potion was lost. But it still existed…inside the head of a twelve going on 2,000 year old werewolf.

Leo felt the familiar dizziness as his feet found solid ground again. Cyrus was holding his arms tightly, steadying him. "We need to store that one!" Leo said as urgently as he could. "Get me a bottle now, before I forget any of it!"

Cyrus grabbed for one of the small glass bottles they had brought down, fumbling and knocking one to the ground before he managed to get the vessel into Leo's shaking hands.

"Now draw it out!" Leo demanded. He closed his eyes and focused intensely, and Cyrus touched his wand to the other man's forehead. Slowly, the silver stream of the memory emerged, and Cyrus carefully collected it.

When it was done, Leo sat down heavily.

"What was in there that was so important?" Cyrus asked, labeling the little bottle.

"You'll see," Leo replied. "But aside from that…I figured out how to understand the girl."

* * *

"I still don't understand what this has to do with the school," I say, mostly to myself. Apollo is now standing on the other side of the great temple's façade, staring out over the mountainside.

"You will," he replies.

I turn toward him. "What do you mean I will? You're not going to tell me?"

"I've already said too much," he says with a shake of his head. "And you know," he began, his voice dropping as he stepped closer, "there is a price for all the things you have learned."

"What?" I take a step back in spite of myself. My wand is in my hand, but I know it will do no good against him.

"You of all people should know that nothing is free." His arms are folded against his chest now, and he looks like a stern parent about to lecture a wayward child. "I've given you a second chance. Not many thought you deserved it, but I…I confess a soft spot for you and your family. I am allowed my follies."

I frown. I think my face says well enough how I feel about being referred to as a folly. "It is not as if you gave me the chance to decide if I wanted to hear this information or not," I bite off.

"Would you really have been content to know nothing?" Apollo asks slyly.

I glare at him. He knows very well that being uninformed drives me crazy. My stomach is in a knot. I can't decide how to feel, and that is something that also drives me crazy.

"Do not disappoint me, Lucius. It is rare that I place my confidence in a mortal, but I think I have chosen well this time."

I shake my head. "You know I make no promises."

A small, rueful smile graces his face. "I did not ask for any."

In an instant I feel as if I have been slammed by a great force, and my eyes go dark.

* * *

Draco sighed and rested his head on his knees. Though the beach was expansive and most of the dig team was concentrated in one area, it was quite difficult to find somewhere to be alone. It proved true once again when he heard an answering sigh a few moments later. He looked up, and there was Hermione Granger looking distressed.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked. "Ten minutes ago you were all exhilarated about the pensieve."

"Yes, well…"

"Well what?"

"Severus and I had a…discussion…and it didn't end up the way either of us hoped."

"That happens sometimes in a relationship."

Her head whipped around, her curls dashing around her cheeks. "What?"

"Come on, Hermione. He's sleeping in your cabin. I'm not an idiot."

She blushed violently. "Nothing…nothing's happened," she stammered.

"Frankly, I don't care what has or hasn't happened. It doesn't embarrass me."

"It doesn't embarrass me either," Hermione replied, frowning. "I just haven't gotten used to thinking of it as a relationship. It's all so strange."

"Life is strange."

"Obviously you're not in the mood to talk," she said a moment later. "I'll leave you alone." She stood and began to walk away, absently brushing the sand from her behind.

The wind carried the grains of sand back to him, and he closed his eyes against them. Impulsively, he called after her, "I didn't mean to be dismissive."

She stopped and turned, her arms crossed over her chest. "I know."

"It's just…I don't understand this." He paused and she walked back to him, wisely keeping her silence. A minute passed before he heaved a sigh and wondered aloud, "Where is he?"

"They said he was safe," Hermione answered, easing herself down onto the sand again. She could not keep the note of doubt out of her voice.

"If he's safe, then where the hell is he? Why hasn't he come back like you and Snape did?"

"I don't know."

"Why are they doing this to us at all?"

"I don't know."

"Are we supposed to just believe that they're gods? Are we supposed to blindly accept what they say?"

She didn't say she didn't know, because it would be redundant and Draco knew the answer just like she did.

"Sometimes I hate being a wizard," Draco said softly. "Sometimes I wish I was just some stupid muggle…content in my ignorance."

* * *

The world spins crazily when I open my eyes. There are voices; someone is speaking to me, and though the inflections are rough, I understand.

"Sir! Sir, are you all right?"

I blink. It is bright and hot, the ground rough beneath me.

"Yes," I hear myself saying. "Yes, I think I am."

Arms are helping me up. I am dizzy, and hands steady me. Slowly, I take in their faces. Three men, two dark and one pale. They all look concerned. The pale man speaks; his accent is strange but it is English.

"What happened?"

"I'm not really sure," I answer. Apollo made it sound like this would be a great test, but so far I did not feel as if I was in any danger.

"It is very hot," one of the other men says. "Maybe it is heatstroke."

"No," I say. "I feel fine. I just…need to get my bearings."

I take a step forward, and hesitantly they let me go. I look up and instantly I stop. A strange feeling settles in my stomach. Before me, on a stone pedestal, there is a tremendous wooden structure. It is in the shape of a horse.

"Where…where am I?" I ask for the second time in a day.

The three men exchange a look.

"You don't know?" one of them asks.

I shake my head.

"Well, sir…" the pale man says slowly, "you are in Troy."


	15. Chapter 15

Troy. I try to wrap my head around it. I stare at the giant wooden horse and suffer a moment of Slytherin cynicism…why would they ever glorify their own defeat by keeping a replica of its instrument?

I shake my head. It was thousands of years ago. To these people, it is nothing more than something of historical interest. No one could positively say if it was legend or fact. Me, I think it all happened, especially now that I know those meddlesome gods exist. Besides, if I knew my history they had gotten the Greeks back well enough.

I wonder what it must have been like. I have seen war, but never on the scale that the ancients waged it. Troy had been burned to the ground, utterly destroyed. I turn and look out over the ruins. They go as far as my eye can see, and though there is little but scarred foundations, it is obvious that it was large.

I try to imagine what it would have been like if Voldemort had directed his attention at London. But the war had never been about destroying places; it was about destroying a population and a way of life. No one wanted to demolish London. They merely wanted it back from the Muggles…all of it, and more.

All that aside…why the hell was I here? I was no cartographer but I did have a rudimentary grasp of Mediterranean geography; Troy was in Turkey, close to the sea, and Greece was not far away. I could be back at Preveza in a day, maybe two. It was hardly a challenge.

The three men, who I have learned are named Mehmet, Zeki, and Cecil, are walking towards me. I'm sure they've been discussing my sanity, and I can't blame them. People don't usually show up in a place and have no idea where they are or what they are there for unless they are lacking in that department.

"Forgive us," Mehmet said as they approached, "we have completely forgotten to ask you your name." In the brief quiet that follows his question, I can almost hear them thinking '_if you remember it.'_

"Lucius," I say. "Lucius Malfoy."

"Good," Cecil says. "That is something to go on."

"Listen, I can't explain to you how I wound up here, but I know where I have to go."

"Where?" Zeki asks.

"Greece. Preveza, specifically. That's where I was before. That's where my family is."

"You know this, and you know who you are, but you have no idea how you came to be here?"

I shrug as convincingly as possible. I know how I got here, but I still don't know why. It's irksome.

"It is not as if strange things have not happened here before," Mehmet is saying. "He seems all right."

"Strange things?" I ask, perking up. Strange happenings often meant that some magic was afoot, and if I could find where it was coming from… "Like what?"

"Mehmet is superstitious," Cecil said, shaking his head.

"It's not all superstition," Zeki replied. "Even you have to admit that this place has its fair share of odd happenings."

"Well, yes, but I'm not as convinced as you two that it is Apollo and the spirits of the dead mucking about." Cecil rolled his eyes.

"Apollo?" I ask, my interest even more piqued. So he has ties to this place.

"Apollo was the patron god of Troy," Zeki explained. "And I never said it was him. I don't believe in some antiquated legend."

"Ah yes, you and your Allah," Cecil muttered.

Zeki gave him a look. "You and your Jesus."

"Gentlemen," I say, before they can go any further, "I don't want to start any kind of ideological argument. I just want to know how I can get back to Greece."

"Come with me," Mehmet says, taking me by the elbow. "Leave the two of them to their debate. It is good-natured, but boring when you have heard it ten times already."

I allow him to lead me away from the bickering men. We enter a building which appears to be a museum. The intellectual part of me wants to look around, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Mehmet brings me down a long corridor and into an office. The air is much cooler in here, and I feel my brain clearing the last of the cobwebs that were so persistent outside.

The dark man sits behind the desk after offering me a glass of water. I take it, realizing suddenly how thirsty I am, and drink it so fast that a faint throb of pain spikes in my head from its coldness.

"More?" he asks.

"No, I'm all right." I sit across from him, content to lull in the cool air for another moment before pressing my agenda.

"So, Lucius Malfoy," he says, my name sounding odd but powerful in his accent, "how does a wizard like you end up out here, lying unconscious beneath the Trojan Horse?"

* * *

Severus was working on the potion in the dragon-shaped vessel. His movements were automatic, but his mind was not as diligent as his hands. It was wandering, jumping from thought to thought in a way that was not at all characteristic of him.

Above all, he had always been able to put some kind of order to his thoughts. It was what made him _him_. But now his mind was being split too many ways; he was thinking about the warning form Hephaestus, his strange confrontation with Hermione, where the hell Lucius was, and what was in that school…

A feeling he despised was returning to him. It was the feeling of responsibility; he had never been free of it as long as Voldemort lived. Not responsibility for what happened, per se, but the responsibility to protect, to be a voice of reason, to keep things from escalating…

It was a foolish feeling, because people inevitably did what they wanted to do anyway. He could not stop Hermione or the other diggers from pressing on inside the school. Severus had to admit that he was battling his own curiosity. Aside from a few important milestones, the distant, distant past of the wizarding world was mostly blank. In fact, there was very little before Merlin. But this place obviously predated that by at least a thousand years.

He cursed softly as he managed to scrape himself rather than the potion bottle. He was too distracted for this. Setting it aside, he allowed himself to slouch in his chair. He abandoned what hold he had on the dam of his brain and let the thoughts flow.

If only he had more information…

It was at that moment that the door to his cabin was flung open and Leonidas Andropolous burst inside. "You are the Potions Master?" he demanded, attempting to catch his breath. Normally Severus would have been put off by his rudeness, but his tone spoke of something too important for etiquette.

"Yes," he answered. "Have you found something?"

"In a manner of speaking," he wheezed. "Come with me."

Severus rose quickly and followed the harried man. He seldom had the feeling that _someone_ up in the heavens was listening to him. It happened once in a while, and he usually attributed it to pure chance. He knew this was not a coincidence, though. Someone really was listening…moving the pieces on the chess board…but he did not know who. He had read Greek myths since his childhood; he knew gods and goddesses took sides. Which side was this, moving so brashly to enlighten him?

* * *

My eyes narrow slightly as I register that Mehmet is a wizard. He hid it well. I wonder if his companions are, too, but dismiss the thought. He would not have taken the care to remove me from their company if they were.

"You know me, then," I say.

"Who does not?" he shrugs. "Most witches and wizards have heard of you and your line, if not for your money then for your…other activities."

I meet his stare. It is hard and challenging, but I have received much worse in my time. His look does not say he wishes me dead, as some do. It merely says he will not be forgetting my sins anytime soon. I have nothing to say to that. I have a long memory, too.

After a few moments, he returns his glance to the desk. "What are you doing in Greece?"

"I'm sure you heard about the cave-in…the ancient school of magic?"

His eyebrows jump up. "Yes, I had heard…it is in Preveza?"

I nod.

"And you were working there?"

I nod again.

"Then how did you get here? Somehow I think you are a bit too polished for botched apparition."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I murmur, shaking my head.

"Are you sure of that?" he asks, the expression on his face daring me to tell him.

I contemplate him. He has the air of a man in the know. I am in Troy, the patron city of Apollo…and why would they have a wizard here…?

"It has to do with…a certain…being," I say carefully.

Mehmet laughs. "Apollo is playing, then."

"You could say that," I reply, thoughts exploding in my head. Playing? Would he have issued such warnings if it was merely a game?

"Half of what I do here is conceal his flights of fancy," Mehmet sighs, shaking his head. "For a being who has been around for thousands of years, maturity is sometimes lost on him."

I should not be as surprised as I am when the sun suddenly goes behind a cloud and the light in the room promptly dies.

"Scare tactics," Mehmet scoffs. "He knows I am right."

"So you are here to prevent the muggles from seeing the magic that exists?"

"Yes. That and I work at the Academy of Divination."

"The Academy of Divination?" I ask. I have never heard of such a place.

"Few are privileged or talented enough to attend it," he replies. "They put it here because it was the home of Cassandra. She was one of the greatest diviners in history, you know."

I nod. That much I remember from the storybooks. "So everyone that attends is actually…a real clairvoyant?"

"In their own way, yes. Some with crystal balls, some with prophecies, some with odd things you would not believe…there is one girl who can astral project between dimensions, and a boy who can tell anyone who their true love is…he has been there four years and has not been wrong yet…"

I frown as Mehmet trails off. Powers of divination were a blessing and a curse, in my opinion. I wondered if the boy who could see true love had any idea who his own soulmate was…but I did not believe in such things anyway.

"The point is, there is so much psychic energy in that school that strange things are bound to happen. There are several people who work there as Concealment Agents, like myself."

I nod, still frowning. I have no idea why he has sent me here.

"So why on earth has Apollo sent you to me?" Mehmet wonders, echoing my thoughts.

"I wish I knew."

"Hmm," is all Mehmet says for a while. The room brightens while we sit in silence; the clouds have moved on. I can see bits of dust swirling in the shafts of light that filter through the large windows.

"Does everyone know about him?" I ask as the minutes tick by. "Are we Europeans just pitifully uninformed?"

"No," he answers. "Very few know of him. Very few indeed…"

* * *

Severus spiraled dizzily out of the pensieve that Cyrus had hastily procured from one of his bewildered relatives. His head was exploding with questions.

"How…?" he said out loud, hardly noticing as Cyrus and Leo supported his wobbly steps. "I have studied that formula up and down, wracked my brain for anything that could change it…"

"The rules weren't the same then, and neither were the ingredients," Leo said.

"But…"

Leo only allowed him to stay paralyzed in thought for a minute. "I know it is a lot to digest, but I need your help amending the Babel spell."

"The spell? Why?" Severus asked absently.

"Did you not notice that when you were in the memory, you could understand them?"

He blinked. Of course he had noticed, but he had taken it for granted, as the others had initially. "So if we fed one of the memories into the spell, you think it would add the language?"

"That's what we're hoping," Cyrus said. "At the very least we'll be able to partially understand her."

"And then we can see if she still has that formula in her head…" Severus murmured. He headed for the door, heedless of the other men.

Leo and Cyrus exchanged a look.

"Are you sure we should unearth this?" Cyrus asked uneasily.

"You are asking me?" Leo remarked.

Cyrus only shook his head and sighed.

* * *

I am still sitting in silence with Mehmet when a sound pierces the air. I frown, wondering what it is, but it does not bother me. Mehmet, on the other hand, stands up so fast that his chair falls over.

"What is it?" I ask.

"The alarms. The alarms for the school!"

"The School of Divination?"

"Yes," he says, pulling out his wand and making for the door.

"Wait!" I shout, standing. "What does it mean?"

"It means," he yells over his shoulder, "that the school is under attack!"

I stand there for a moment, unsure what to do. Am I supposed to help him, or am I supposed to watch the chain of events unfold? I wish I had been given more clues. But I suppose that all I can do is follow my instincts – and they tell me to help him. They tell me to protect the children.

* * *

"There you are," someone said. "We've been looking everywhere for you two."

Lupin looked up, as did Lilith. He had been teaching her a few English phrases since it did not seem likely that they would understand her language anytime soon. She was picking it up quickly. He could tell that she was a very smart girl; it was a pity she'd had to wait a few thousand years to get her education.

"Just trying to teach her some English," he said, holding up the book. "What's going on?"

"We think we've found a way to alter the Babel spell to include her language. We need her to make sure that it works."

Lilith looked at him eagerly. She did not know what Leo had said, but was observant enough to hear the positive note in his voice and see the hope in both of their faces. Remus smiled at her. This was good news. Soon she would no longer be mute, and her awakening would be complete.

"We'll come with you." He stood and offered a hand to Lilith. The girl took it and followed him.

"She really likes you," Leo said as they walked through the sand. He glanced at Lilith; he felt bad talking about the girl when she was right there, but this was probably one of the last opportunities he would have to do so.

"Everyone keeps saying that." Lupin's voice sounded slightly flat. "It isn't a matter of liking me. I'm just the first person she's ever met that is like her. It's infatuation. It will pass."

Leo stole a long look at his face. His expression said it all: he did not like to become attached, because people tended to abandon him in one way or another. He frowned to himself.

"Mr. Lupin," he stated, "I think you should consider adopting her."

Lupin stopped in his tracks. Lilith looked up at him, confused, but did not release his hand.

"Are you kidding? I'm hardly qualified…"

"She's going to need someone."

"I am the worst possible person. I have nothing to offer her."

"That isn't true. You have more to offer her than most anyone else."

Lupin's glare was full of conflicting emotions. "You barely know me."

"That is true," Leo said, smiling oddly. "But I am an exceptionally good judge of character."

Remus sighed. He contemplated Leo, choosing his words carefully.

"It takes more than character to raise a child."

* * *

It is utter chaos when I finally manage to catch up with Mehmet. I don't have time to marvel at how beautiful the school is; sparks and dust surround us.

"You shouldn't have followed!" he yells at me.

"I think you'll be glad I did!"

He looks at me grudgingly for a moment, before it becomes necessary for us to duck and cover in the wake of a barrage of stunning spells.

"All right!" he shouts. "Help me get the students out safely! I don't know where the others are…"

It becomes clear as we make our way down the hallway that his fellow Concealment Agents and teachers have already fallen victim to the attackers. I haven't gotten a good glimpse of one yet; there is too much smoke and madness and I am not stupid enough to stand still for very long.

"This room is clear!" I hear Mehmet shout. He is heading out the door. I am about to follow him when a small voice stops me.

"Help!"

I squint, trying to find the source of it. I spot the boy wedged underneath a desk.

"I'm stuck!" he cries. "Help me!"

I nod, more to myself than to him since I doubt he can see more than my shins, and move toward him. A loud sound startles me, and a sudden pain explodes in my shoulder. I go to my knees reflexively, teeth gritted against the pain. When I look down, blood is coursing from a circular wound. I press my hand to it, but it does nothing – blood squirts between my fingers. What in the hell was this? I'd never seen a spell create a wound like this, a perfect little circle of destruction punched right through the flesh…

"Behind you!" the boy shrills. I hear something click. Instinctively, I roll. That same loud explosion echoes in the room; I see the tiles of the floor erupt into miniscule shards where I had been moments before.

Now my attacker is visible. He is all in black, a strange metal device in his hands. His face is covered with a hood and goggles. I am faster than him this time; he slumps over unconscious. I am trying to scramble to my feet when someone shouts,

"Expelliarmus!"

My wand flies out of my hand. I make a desperate grab for it, forgetting my wound. Pain blooms and I gasp, sinking back to the floor. I am usually good at resisting pain, working through it, but this is unlike anything I have ever felt. It throbs insistently, robbing me of the ability to do anything but breathe raggedly as I try to ride it out.

"I've got him," the wizard was saying.

_The hell you do_, I thought to myself. Lucius Malfoy was not easily gotten, not even when he had holes punched in him…I vaguely register that there is a small pool of blood forming beneath me, but I decide to ignore it. My brain obliges, and I lunge for the traitorous wizard.

He does not expect my brutality. Not many do. Wizards are sometimes lulled into the belief that someone without a wand can't hurt them. I have proved them wrong on many occasions, and later I will consider with some trepidation how good it felt to _attack_, to lose control...

He struggles, narrowly firing a jinx into the ceiling instead of my face and managing to punch me solidly. There is more pain in my jaw, but adrenaline has taken over. I have wrested the wand from his hand and now we are on even terms again. However, I don't have much strength in my wounded side, and once his surprise wears off he is equal to the task.

I'm forced to my back. He is a big man, this hostile stranger. My cheek seems to implode beneath his fist and I teeter dangerously close to the edge of unconsciousness. The world tilts and whirls, but his manhandling has shifted me close enough to where my wand fell. I reach out with my good arm, and in a second he is neutralized.

I pant, clinging to consciousness. With great effort I shove the attacker aside. I try to orient myself, but it is next to impossible; the world is still spinning and it feels like my eyes are out of focus.

"Hello?" the boy cries out. "Are you…are you there?"

I can follow the sound of his voice. The panic in it propels me, though walking is quite beyond me at the moment. I crawl.

"What's stuck?" is all I can manage when I get to him.

"My leg. The desk bent…"

The rest of his words don't process. I focus on the boy's leg, where it appears that two desks collided and entangled themselves around his shin. With great concentration I am able to cut the metal away. His leg is miraculously uninjured, and he gratefully scrambles to his feet. I get one good look at him; he is dark-haired, dark-eyed, skin the color of tea mixed with milk, and in five years women will be throwing themselves at him.

"Go," I say. "Run."

"What about you?"

"I'll be all right."

"You don't look all right."

I lose my temper. "Get out of here, you foolish boy!" I shout, staggering to my feet.

He has a strange look on his face. "I won't get hurt. Let me help you."

I stare at him. I have forgotten that this is a school of divination. It must be nice to know you'd make it out of a fight unscathed; I seem to be doing just the opposite lately.

"You're not even supposed to be here, Lucius." The boy is squinting hard at me. A strange quiet has fallen around us, almost as if the fight is over. Discomfort fills me. I hate the thought that he can see through me, inside me – what was he looking at? What parts of me would he unearth?

"Please," I say, "we need to get to safety."

His expression changes to a look of great sadness. "I'm afraid there is no safety for you."

His words hit me hard. I can feel the truth in them. Somehow I know he is right.

"These men," the boy gestures at the unconscious attackers, "they're here for you. And they won't leave without you."

I hear footsteps coming down the hall. My time is short.

"Why?" I ask the boy urgently. "Why me?"

"They think you know something."

I shake my head. I know many things I'm not supposed to, but none of those things have yet warranted an attack. "What do they think I know?"

"A formula, or the location of a formula." The boy's face fills with concern. "You must not tell them. You must not tell them _anything_."

"I can't tell them things I don't know!"

Our conversation is curtailed as three men flood into the room. Two wands and another of those odd metal weapons are trained on my chest.

"Don't try to fight, Malfoy," one of them says. I still have my wand, and it would not be the first time I had fought three people…

One of the wizards gestured to the man with the metal weapon. He moved quickly toward the boy. The dark-haired boy was very still, his eyes fixed on me.

"Don't try anything," the wizard repeats coldly. "Put down your wand."

"And if I don't?" I say. I'm trying to buy time, to figure out how to get out of this…

"See that hole in your shoulder, Malfoy? I'll put one in his head."

I swallow. No one needs to tell me that would be fatal. Moving slowly, I put my wand on the floor and step back.

"Strange," the wizard says, levitating my wand into his hand. "I would have expected you to let the boy die."

I say nothing. There was a time when I might have. Not anymore. Who is this man, anyway, speaking as if he knows me? I have never seen him before. He has an arrogant face with glittering, greedy eyes and meticulously trimmed facial hair.

The wizard directs his attention at the boy. "You are free to go. Tell your headmaster I am very sorry for the damage." His voice was full of sarcastic glee. The man with the metal weapon prods the boy, and he walks toward the door. He casts one last look back at me and his voice sounds in my mind.

_Tell them nothing. _

* * *

Far away, a phone rang. Edward Nugent picked it up in the middle of the first ring.

"Yes?"

"We've got one of them," the voice on the other end said.

"One of the wizards?"

"Yes."

"Where did you pick him up?"

"Near the old ruins of Troy, in Turkey. There was a school there, but it wasn't the right one. It was still operational and no werewolves."

Edward sighed. That was not helpful, but at least they had found one of the wizards.

"Bring him here. He knows where that school is, and he will tell us whether he wants to or not."

There was a pause on the other end. "Sir, it's Lucius Malfoy."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"It means something to the wizards. They say he won't crack easily."

"You leave that to me, Ritter," Edward said.

"Yes, sir."

The phone went dead. Edward smiled as he listened to the dial tone.

* * *

Warrick was nervous. Always nervous.

"Why must we involve the Muggles?" he asked for what was probably the hundredth time. "They make too many mistakes."

"We've been over this," Prometheus said in a bored tone. "They are the only ones who can disperse the potion on a scale large enough to neutralize our competition."

"They will turn on us."

"Probably, but we'll be one step ahead of them."

"They are not stupid," Warrick said, exasperated. "I'm sure they know what we're planning."

"No, they're not stupid, but they are hungry for power and desperate to find a sense of security. They know it's risky but have obviously judged it…worth the risk. They think they will be able to control us." A smug smile played across the wizard's lined face.

"We're getting ahead of ourselves, Prometheus. What if Malfoy tells us nothing?" Warrick contemplated their prisoner, who was too pale and still for his comfort. A dead prisoner would be useless, yet Prometheus had forbidden anyone to heal him beyond what was necessary to keep him alive. It was true that pain loosened the tongue, but Malfoy was no stranger to pain or the pressure of interrogation by those vastly more intimidating than Prometheus. But at least he had stopped bleeding.

"He'll tell us what we want to know," Prometheus said confidently, his eyes following Warrick's.

"You aren't going to let that Nugent man try to get it out of him, are you? In this state, he'll kill him."

"Oh, he'll go to Nugent, but not until we're finished with him. And we'll get the information the easy way."

"Veritaserum?"

Prometheus nodded. "I have no time for conventional torture. Malfoy can stand up to that. So you see, Warrick, we will have that information before the Muggles ever get it. And Mr. Malfoy here will probably succumb to his injuries after Nugent's done with him…thus stopping him from warning his compatriots. We have the werewolf, the formula, and we produce it on our own terms. Then all that is left is for the Muggle military to do our bidding."

Warrick nodded, apparently satisfied. His anxiety was vexing at times, and Prometheus was glad that he had managed to quiet him. Prometheus stood and walked away. He needed to read it again.

The book was old, yellowing, close to falling apart. Only dozens of conservation charms had kept it intact. The handwriting within was thick and bold, slashing across the thin pages in lines that slanted downward.

_Today our pursuit yielded a prize beyond any we have found in months. We came upon Baltasar hiding in the mountains near Delphi. The townsfolk attempted to protect him and were thus slaughtered for their trouble. Once captive Baltasar proved stubborn, only speaking after we'd put out his eye. But he spoke only to curse us and said no more in spite of the loss of his other eye and a number of fingers. We determined after some rigorous and bloody persuasion that Baltasar truly knew nothing; his memory of the formula had been erased. He did, however, know where Ambrose had been hiding. We extracted this from him, along with his small intestine. Upon his cooperation we ended his suffering, though he was near enough his end anyhow. We move now to strike in Thessaloniki, where Ambrose has been living quietly, hoping we will not find him._

Prometheus turned the page. He knew these were the words of a madman, a person obsessed beyond all reason, and that he himself was becoming far too familiar with the all-consuming desire.

_Ambrose is not here. We have scoured Thessaloniki, randomly interrogated its citizens, even executed a dozen of them in the hopes of breaking the silence. They will not speak. They will not tell us where he is._

Here there was a gap of nearly a month where the diary's mad author had not written. But his words were terrifying when they resumed.

_I have begun a new campaign to draw Ambrose out. Today we attacked the Accademia di Magia in Rome. I took ten students hostage, ranging from mere babes to boys on the brink of manhood. I announced to the people that if Ambrose did not come forward, I would kill each and every one of them. Six are now dead. No Ambrose. My patience is nearly expended, but I know he will not be able to bear the murder of children. I will kill them until he comes to stop me. And he will come._

From that point on, there were only notations.

_Durmstrang__, Prague. 10 boys._

_Majestad__, Valencia__. 4 boys, 6 girls._

_Dos Santos Escola para Bruxas, Lisbon.__ 13 girls._

_Magische__ Serre, Amsterdam. 8 boys._

_Beauxbatons__, Rouen. 7 girls, 1 woman._

_Academy__ of Divination, Troy.__ 12._

_Hecate__ Institute, Athens. 39._ Beneath that there was a small notation. _I will execute the entire school if I have to. I know he is still in Greece, and the guilt is eating him alive._

And it must have been, for the next entry was viciously jubilant.

_He has come. He has surrendered. He claims that he will never tell me anything, that he has erased his own memory of the formula, but I know he is lying. I will draw it out of him. There will be no kind death for him like there was for Baltasar. Ambrose and his secret are mine._

Prometheus closed the book. There were no more entries. He knew that Acheron had not succeeded. Ambrose truly had erased his own memory of the formula and Acheron's bloody campaign through Europe's magic schools had been for nothing. The people were tired of his brutality, sympathetic with Ambrose, and ready to be done with the burgeoning conflict. When wizards and witches chose to unite, their power and direction was undeniable. In three days, Acheron and his regime had been utterly wiped out of Athens, their operatives tracked down throughout Europe, and their malignant mission snuffed out. Baltasar and Ambrose were dead, too, so it was assumed that the secret had gone with them.

Prometheus sighed. They had not known back then that Ambrose had imparted that secret on someone. They had not known that somewhere out there was a twelve-year-old werewolf, preserved for two thousand years, with the formula in her head. Time (and the effort of Ambrose and Baltasar) had erased all records of their school; no one knew where it was except that it was in Greece. That was why, when this cave-in revealing the school in Greece occurred, the Greek Ministry had kept its location quiet – they had a long memory. Only those who were at the site knew where it was, and they were kept in the dark until entering Greece. It seemed like normal security, but Prometheus knew better.

So no one knew its location, exactly. No one, that was, except Lucius Malfoy. And when he regained consciousness, he would talk. Oh yes, he would talk.

* * *

Hi all, sorry for long, long delay in getting this out. Something about working 65 hours a week really wears you out! Since last September I've been working two jobs and saving money for graduate school. My labor paid off and I'll soon be going for my master's degree. I know it will be hard work but hopefully less so than what I've been doing this year! In the time that went by I lost sight of what I had originally planned for this story, but I have gotten it back and then some. If grad school does not prove too ridiculous I can hopefully regain some kind of normal schedule with this story and others, but I make no promises since I'm not there yet. Please show your support and let me know that you're still reading (or reading for the first time!). Thanks! SinisterPapayaFondue 


	16. Chapter 16

As darkness fell, everyone gravitated toward the bonfire on the beach. Though it had taken nearly two hours of tedious work, feeding the memories from the pensieve into the wards had worked. The Babel spell had absorbed it, worked its peculiar magic, and now, when Lilith opened her mouth, she was comprehensible. This was to be her first dinner with them where she could speak and understand, and no one on site was about to miss it.

"They are going to have a lot of questions, aren't they?" she asked Remus as the two of them walked toward the bright fire.

"Probably," he shrugged. "But you have just as many questions for us, right?"

The girl nodded. "I can't believe how long it's been. Everything must be different now…"

"You are taking it better than I would," he remarked. "Although by now I ought to be used to such things."

Lilith frowned, a concerned look invading her youthful face. Noticing the change in her demeanor, Remus felt a spasm of pain. He knew what she was thinking, how she was feeling – adolescence was bad enough, but to crown it with lycanthropy _and_ the fact that she had missed a millennia and everyone she had ever known or loved was long, long gone…and she was about to face dozens of foreign people who would ask her questions, and then, worse, inform her of all the things that had happened and _not_ happened while she was asleep…

He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and spoke, his tone soft and earnest, "Lilith, I know that I can't comprehend what is was like to have lived back when you were put in that display case…but I can tell you that it is better now. It is not great, but it's so, so much better."

She blinked back tears. "I hope so."

* * *

Severus was as confused as ever by Hermione's behavior. He thought because of the strange quarrel earlier that she would avoid him for some time, as Dawn had with Lucius, but that did not seem to be the case. Granted, he had not insulted her, but she was acting as if nothing had happened at all. She sat close to him, unashamed, clearly displaying that they were _more_.

He was not as comfortable with the display as she was. It was not that he was embarrassed to be seen with her, for people to know that they were…_more…_but he had always been a fairly private person and it made him downright squeamish to have Hermione's hand casually resting on his thigh in front of the entire dig team. He didn't know how to make her understand without hurting her feelings; he knew women were notoriously touchy about things like that and he was not about to burn his already shaky bridges.

He shifted under the guise of getting more comfortable, hoping that the movement would propel her to move her hand. It did; she was intensely focused on the give and take questioning between Lilith and Cyrus and when he moved all she did was give him a quick, distracted smile and reposition herself accordingly.

Severus was only relieved for a moment. Then he felt revolted at himself that he could not even keep his attention on the more important matters that were unfolding beside the bonfire. For God's sake, the girl had known the man who had created a potion to neutralize all magical powers!

He thought perhaps he was purposely ignoring that. It was terrifying to think it could even be done, accidentally or not. The consequences if it got into the wrong hands…it made him dizzy with unease. However, at the same time there was the incredible, unbearable compulsion to know how he had done it. Severus was a Potions Master; he loved what he did, and deep down he knew he would never be able to resist hearing the formula.

Cyrus and Leo evidently had not told anyone else about the memory they'd recovered from the pensieve, and they did not mention it while they questioned Lilith. Severus thought this was for the best. They would have to approach her on her own, quietly, and hope that she would trust them enough to give up the formula.

He was very sure that this was what Hephaestus had been referring to. This was monumental, and it could certainly start a war. Judging by what Lilith was saying, it clearly had. There was no Voldemort anymore, but evil did not slumber; it was always active, always searching for a cause, a mission, and those who were foolish enough to be taken in by it…

The logical part of his mind put on the brakes. He had told himself probably a hundred times that there was no guarantee that the formula was relevant anymore. Leo had been right when he said things were different back then. In two thousand years, plants, animals, and entire groups of things could have disappeared off the face of the earth. There could be ingredients in the potion that no one even knew existed, and if that was the case, how the hell were they supposed to find them? It could turn out to be nothing more than a frustrating wild goose chase. He was not going to get himself worked up for nothing.

But why were the gods so insistent if it was nothing? That was what plagued him. Warnings were not given for nothing.

"Severus?" Hermione's voice was an unexpected, if pleasant interruption to his thoughts.

"Hm?" he blinked, turning to her. He noticed that the group at the bonfire was thinning. Lilith was already walking away with Lupin.

"They're done," she said, contemplating him. "What are you thinking about?"

He returned her look; her eyes were gentle but curious, her pupils dilated from the pale light of the fire. If he was more paranoid, he might think that she knew he was keeping something from her, but he chose not to go down that path. He would tell her about what he had seen in the pensieve when they returned to the privacy of their own cabin.

Listen to him…_their _cabin. It was amazing how quickly they had become a unit in his mind. He had never, ever allowed himself to make that transition so quickly before. In fact, he had only allowed himself to become romantically entangled once or twice before, and with far more resistance than he was displaying now. But it felt right, and the dark times where attachment would have been suicide were gone. It was an adjustment, but an agreeable one.

"Just…" he replied softly, "just what all of this means."

She nodded, her curls swaying. "It's really quite amazing."

He squeezed her hand. "Let's go. I'm tired."

Hermione nodded again, taking a breath before leaning forward and climbing to her feet. She probably thought he was tired from helping to alter the Babel spell; it was true, that had been tiring work, but in reality he was exhausted from _thinking_. He could not shake the image of the chess board from his mind. When he closed his eyes he saw Hephaestus, the wiry, odd-looking man contemplating his move against a faceless opponent. And as desperately as he wanted to know the formula of that potion, he also desperately wanted to go back to not knowing it had ever existed at all. The conflict inside him made his stomach churn.

She was looking at him expectantly. Smiling, she offered a hand. He took it but did most of the work himself, rising beside her. Once he was on his feet she made to let go, but he held on to her. Her hand was small and warm and did not cling too tightly; he liked that about her.

Hermione smiled. Wordlessly, they moved toward the cabins, and Severus found that he suddenly did not care who was watching.

* * *

"Is that little girl _really_ the werewolf that wanted to eat us?" Nick asked, fiddling with a seashell.

"Yes," Dawn answered. "She can't help what she did during her transformation."

"This still blows my mind," Nick continued. "That there are werewolves at all, not to mention one who's been in stasis for two thousand years."

"Stranger things have happened," she murmured. In the wizarding world, that statement would always be true.

"All that stuff about that Voldemort guy," Anatole spoke up, "how did it all happen without us noticing?"

"You did notice. You just thought it was other things – terrorists, natural disasters, whatever."

"Give me an example," Anatole said. "I want to know something he did that we would have heard about."

"The massacre at Southampton."

"Voldemort did that?" Anatole asked.

Dawn sighed, annoyance flashing on her face. "I know it doesn't mean much to you, but please don't use his name so lightly. He was evil."

"Right. Sorry. _He_ did that?"

"Yes. Your law enforcement ruled it some kind of horrible accident, but it wasn't. All those people were killed at his order."

"_Why_?" Anatole asked, frowning.

"One of his plans was derailed by the Ministry of Magic. He was angry. He couldn't be bested by us, and he took it out on Muggles."

"What did he have against us? It's not like we can do anything," Nick snorted.

Dawn gave him a thoughtful look. "Of course you can do things. Magic isn't the only way to fight. He knew that."

"We wouldn't have had a chance," Nick maintained.

Dawn shrugged. "In truth, he thought Muggles were a lesser species. He thought you all should have been forced into subjugation and slavery."

"Could he have done that?" Anatole asked, horrified.

"In Europe, certainly. The whole world? I don't know."

Nick and Anatole were silent, absorbing her words. Then Anatole spoke up quietly, his voice full of hesitation.

"They say…they say that Snape worked for Vol—for _him_."

Dawn's eyes were full of appraisal. "Yes. He did. So did Lucius."

Anatole had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Then…shouldn't they…be in prison, or something? If this guy was as bad as you say he was…what kinds of things did they do for him?"

Dawn's jaw tightened. "That's for them to live with."

Anatole did not look convinced.

"People make mistakes," Nick said quietly. Dawn's glance shifted from Anatole to Nick and stayed for a moment; she hadn't expected to have Nick as an ally.

"Yeah, but most mistakes don't _kill_ people," Anatole retorted. It suddenly became clear to Dawn. He was finding reasons to hate Snape. He was finding reasons to compete with him. Well, she could not stop him from doing that, but she could stick up for the man.

"Snape was a double agent. He worked for He Who Shall Not be Named so that his enemies could be informed. It wasn't easy, and I'm sure he didn't like many of the things he had to do. Not many men _could_ do it."

"And Lucius? Was he a spy, too?" Nick asked.

Dawn shook her head. "No. Lucius...I don't know. But the important part is that he came around. He figured out what was important."

"You're too forgiving," Anatole grumbled.

"You have to understand," Dawn said. "The wizarding world has had very little peace for the last fifty years. This wasn't just one war. Before Lucius was even born, his grandfather chose a side, and his father, and by the time Lucius came along…he didn't have a choice anymore. He was raised to believe the filth that _he_ propogated. It isn't easy to break that cycle."

Anatole said nothing, but his face was not convinced. A sudden look of ire flashed in Dawn's eyes.

"Have you ever known war?" she demanded.

"Well, no…not directly."

"Then you can't understand." She stood up and turned her back without another word. Anatole watched her as she moved away, frowning.

"No wonder they're so antsy about this thing with the werewolf," Nick said after a few moments had passed. "Can you imagine it? What must war be like for them? Just…speak a few words and…someone dies…"

"It's not much different," Anatole said darkly. "All we've got to do is pull a trigger...at least they have to think about the words before they say them."

* * *

"How's that dragon coming along?" Hermione asked over his shoulder.

"All right," he murmured. "The buildup is thick here…" he pointed at the area he'd been picking at for a few minutes.

"Lovely," she said. Her arms wrapped around him from behind and her face came to rest against his neck. "Why don't you come to bed?"

Severus couldn't help but shut his eyes. Her breath against his neck was maddening. What lamentable control he had…

"I wanted to tell you something," he forced himself to say.

"Is it important?" Her hands were undoing the buttons of his shirt.

"…Yes."

"Is it so important that it can't wait a few hours?"

"What are you intending for me to do for the next few hours?"

She said nothing, but her hands continued to work on his shirt. Her warm fingers trailed over his chest. He cringed. If he told her now, she would be deterred from this ill-defined path of intimacy. Intellectual curiosity would take over and he would spend the night with her chattering about potion formulations. Normally, that would be just as sexy to him as her hands burning into his skin, but not today. That discussion could wait for tomorrow. It wasn't as if he actually knew the formulation, anyway. Again, he told himself that it could all be bunk; there was no guarantee that the girl even remembered, or that the formula could be recreated after so many millennia.

No, today he chose her. Today he chose Hermione Granger. How strange…

But the light pressure of her hands was not strange. Her fingers felt right. His conscience was not screaming as much as it should have been. Yet he felt miles away from the man who had first met this girl, and really, he was…

Well, he would have to be, because he most certainly would have been arrested if he'd kissed her back then. He did not care to think about whether he had ever wanted to. _That _was a place that was forbidden to go…

She climbed carefully onto his lap. She was more graceful than she looked. This Hermione girl was full of surprises. He let his hands meander up the back of her tank top. He had noticed before that her skin was soft and warm and smooth but it was good to notice it again.

Her lips descended on his. Oh, what power was this? She unleashed an almost melancholy need in him. Maybe melancholy wasn't the right word. Maybe it only felt that way because he had forbidden himself to feel these kinds of things for so long. What was the point of that now?

Absolutely nothing. The answer was not to deny himself. Lucius had figured it out; the answer was to do as he pleased because it pleased _him_ – not anyone else. It was time to do what was best for him, consequences be damned. And right now, what was best for him was…

He pushed the flimsy tank top up and parted from her lips just long enough to toss it aside. He felt her smile against his mouth. That was less interesting than the feel of her skin along his; she had pushed his shirt off his shoulders and the long expanse of her torso was more than agreeable when pressed against him. She chuckled in his ear when his hand went to work on the closure of her bra. This was a skill that, once learned, was never forgotten.

Her bra (blue – his mind catalogued that, however briefly) soon met the fate of her shirt. He looked at her. Her hair was frizzy but controlled, a few curls spilling over her shoulders. Her cheeks flushed, her lips pink and inviting, and those aforementioned shoulders were delicate and strong at the same time. He had always had a particular weakness for a woman's décolletage and Hermione Granger's did not disappoint. Her skin was perfect, unmarred, slightly tanned and glowing with youth. Her collarbones nestled contently beneath the skin, not too sunken and not too prominent. He wanted very much to kiss them. And it went without saying that her breasts were wonderful. They were full and perky, the left one slightly larger than the right, with rosy nipples that were peaking as he perused her.

Her fingers beneath his chin raised his eyes back up to hers. Her face was serene but there was a crease of doubt between her eyebrows.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I expected you to brush me off," she confessed with a sheepish smile.

He raised his eyebrows. "I am many things, Hermione…but I'm not crazy." And then, giving in to pure instinct, he wrapped his arms around her and hoisted her from the chair. The only sound was her laughter as he deposited her on the bed.

* * *

I am not sure if I'm awake or dreaming. It could be either with Apollo swimming in my eyes. His face is impassive, but I might detect a bit of remorse in his chiseled features.

"Remember what the boy said, Lucius," he states. "Tell them nothing."

"That's all you have to say to me?" My voice is too clear for me to be awake. I know there were too many blows to the face for coherent speech. "You knew they would be there. You knew they would be looking for me."

"Not just for you, Lucius. As of two days ago, they have a list of everyone who is on your dig. You're all untraceable at the site itself, but once you leave…"

"Why would they want to track us?"

"I can't say anymore, Lucius."

"How am I supposed to know what you want me to do if you tell me nothing?"

"You know what to do."

I think back to the boy. The expression on his face…

"These people are going to kill me."

This evokes a reaction out of him. He unfolds his arms and shifts, looking a bit uncomfortable. "They might, Lucius. That is up to you…but if it hadn't been you, it could have been anyone on your dig team. Your son. Your girlfriend. The others…"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better about these people killing me?"

He frowns. "I thought it might. I guess I was wrong."

I say nothing. I would rather it was me, but only if the alternative was Draco, Dawn, or Severus. Perhaps the Granger girl is on that list, as well, but only because I know that Severus has fallen for her. Anyone else I would not shed a tear over. Is that so wrong? Any man would rather that misfortune befell someone else.

Apollo's frown has deepened. He looks genuinely conflicted now. "This is becoming…" he pauses, sighing, "complicated."

I open my metaphorical mouth to say something, but he is already gone. And, heaven help me, my eyes are not so dim anymore. I'm returning to reality; the reality of greed and madness and pain. It is home, though, and I'm not afraid. These people, no matter who they are, will never be Voldemort. He still stands unmatched as the most terrifying thing I ever had to face…except, of course, for myself.

* * *

Mehmet jumped as a hand descended on his shoulder. Thankfully, it was only Cecil.

"Weird day, eh?" he asked amicably.

Mehmet nodded weakly. Weird was not the word for it. Downright surreal was more accurate.

"What happened to that Lucius fellow?" Cecil asked, orange light flaring briefly in the darkness as he lit a cigarette.

"I put him in a hotel for tonight. He'll take a boat back to Greece tomorrow," Mehmet lied. It was the easiest thing to do right now. He knew that wherever he was, Lucius Malfoy was not in any hotel.

"There were some men here," Cecil said. "From the military. They were looking for him."

Mehmet turned his head quickly and got a face full of smoke. Ignoring it, he asked, "They were looking for Lucius?"

Cecil nodded, careful to blow his smoke the other way.

"What did you tell them?"

"That he'd been here, but was gone."

Mehmet frowned. "Anything else?"

"That he mentioned he was trying to get to Greece."

Mehmet shifted uneasily. He could see where this was going. "Just Greece? You didn't mention where, specifically?"

Cecil's blue eyes fixed on him and registered his discomfort. "You knew him," the Englishman said. "That wasn't the first time you'd met him."

"It was the first time I met him, but I know who he is."

"Is he in some kind of trouble?"

Mehmet took the cigarette from Cecil's hand and breathed deeply. At least if he was going to kill himself with this habit, he had the sense to smoke good Turkish cigarettes.

"Where were you all day? You just…disappeared."

"Taking care of some things." He handed the cigarette back to his comrade. "Cecil, did you tell them that Lucius was trying to get to Preveza?"

"Yes. Is that bad?"

Mehmet instantly wished he had not surrendered the cigarette. "Yes. Yes it is." A moment later he turned to walk away.

"Hey!" Cecil's footsteps echoed through the vast ruin. "Where are you going?"

"To take care of some more things," he replied over his shoulder.

"Then I'm coming with you!"

Mehmet turned and Cecil nearly ran into him. "No. That's not possible."

"I can't claim to understand what's going on, but if men with guns are involved you can't do it on your own."

Mehmet smiled and squeezed Cecil's shoulder. He really was a good man. And maybe…if muggles were involved in this bizarre attack and Malfoy's abduction, maybe it would be good to have one in his corner. This was more than just a skirmish in the wizarding world. He took a breath and nodded. "All right. But Cecil…it's not the men with guns I'm worried about."

* * *

When I wake there is one person in the room with me. I have been tortured before but never like this. Never alone in a dark room. I am not sure if this is better or worse; with a crowd there can be fear and sympathy. On my own…well, there is no one else here to see what he does to me. A man is often most brutal when he knows no one is watching.

He is tall and stocky. He looks a little bit like Joeri, the Russian wizard from the dig, but perhaps that comparison comes from the fact that he is smoking a cigar. His hair is brown, cropped close to his skull to control the curl, and his eyes are green.

"Welcome back, Mr. Malfoy."

I try to raise an eyebrow at him and a shot of pain cuts through me. It is obvious that my face is in bad shape. I settle for expressing my disdain around a swollen lip. "There's no need for formalities."

"Perhaps not." He stands and stalks toward me. He walks a slow circle around me, the smoke from his cigar forming a dense curtain around us. "But I like to be civilized."

I snort and fidget with my bonds. They are tight, not a millimeter of give.

"I am Prometheus. Prometheus L. Bound."

I can't help myself. I laugh. "Going to bring fire to the people?"

"In a manner of speaking, Mr. Malfoy. I'm going to bring fire to the people who deserve it."

A chill settles in my stomach. I don't need to hear the rhetoric, but I ask anyway, "Who deserves it?"

He drags his chair across the floor and sets it down right in front of me. He sits heavily, crossing his legs. "You have two options, Mr. Malfoy. You can tell me what I want to know and be on your way…or you can be difficult."

"Surely, Mr. Bound, you know that if it is not to his benefit, a Malfoy is notoriously difficult."

He moves quickly. The still-lit cigar is a centimeter from my eye. The heat and the smoke make it tear, but I don't close it. I know better than to show fear. "Your benefit, Mr. Malfoy, is that I might let you live."

I stare him down. It's something I'm exceptionally good at, even in this position. After two long minutes he growls and looks away. But I've made him angry. He stubs the cigar out on my arm.

It hurts. It hurts a lot. I smell my own skin burning. Sounds of pain build in my throat but there is no chance of them escaping. It will take a lot more than one nickel-sized burn to draw them out.

"Good day, Mr. Malfoy."

* * *

So this is what it felt like to be with a woman half his age. Lucius had sung the praises of such things, and logic dictated that it was good, but _oh lord_ was it good. It was possible that her age had nothing to do with it, though. No…seldom had _any_ woman turned him on as much as she did.

Hermione was draped on top of him, divested of everything except her underwear. He was in a similar state. How had he forgotten this? How had he conveniently squelched the need for skin on skin?

Christ, her mouth. He had not kissed anyone like this since he was…nineteen? Twenty? Young and stupid, for sure. He was no longer young, but he could still be stupid.

The tip of her tongue traced his upper lip. Severus closed his eyes and breathed. There was something about this place. Lucius had mentioned that it made him feel like a horny teenager – one of many unnecessary pieces of information his friend chose to impart on him. Damn it, why did he keep thinking about Lucius? He pushed the blond out of his mind. Missing or not, Lucius was not going to intrude on this. There were limits.

He turned, trapping her beneath him. At last he attacked her neck and collarbones. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his lips, and when he flickered his tongue over her pulse there was a faint tinge of salt. He tasted her heartbeat, gauging its rapid flutter. As strange as it seemed, he knew her blood pounded for want of him. That was about the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.

Blood rushed to long-neglected places. There was no way to hide it. Especially not when she wrapped her long legs around him.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked a moment later.

"What?" Of all the ridiculous questions! "No."

She laughed. "You have this look on your face. I thought maybe I…compressed some tender areas."

He shook his head. "Compress all you want." He returned to her neck. She smelled good and was evidently enjoying his attention. He could feel her breath coming faster. Severus was sure his was, too.

He moved on. Her nipples were hard and puckered now, a little darker in color than before. He touched his tongue to one, probing its persistent peak. An intake of her breath signaled that this was a good thing. He sealed his lips around it, his tongue against the tip, and sucked gently. This, too, was good; she let out a soft half-sigh, half-moan. He was looking forward to hearing a lot more of those.

After a few moments, a sharp tug at his hair pulled him out of his breast-induced reverie.

"Don't you give me the eyebrow," she said, grinning.

"I will if I want to." He ran his hands down her sides, appreciating the curve of her hip.

She fidgeted under his fingers. "Severus…"

"Hm?"

"Can we…maybe…save the foreplay for next time?" Her cheeks colored most endearingly.

He was momentarily taken aback. What woman vetoed foreplay? Well, he supposed that the last week had been a sort of prolonged foreplay. Clearly enough testosterone had collected in him to enable this recklessness. It must be the same for her. She wanted her payoff.

Well, far be it from him to deny her – or himself.

"That's…er…fine with me," he said, trying not to sound too eager.

"Good." She reached down and tugged at his boxers.

He couldn't help himself. "Straightforward thing, aren't you?"

She retaliated by wrapping her hand around his arousal. "I'd watch what I said if I were you," she smirked. "After all, you did tell me I could compress all I wanted."

"Oh," he breathed as her hand moved, stroking his hot length. "And I meant it."

She raised herself on one elbow to kiss him, her hand continuing its slow torture. He let his tongue slide against hers for a minute and then pulled away, inhaling and mustering his control.

"I thought we were--" he winced as her fingers traced the head of his organ, "forgoing this."

She smiled. "It's just…put it this way. I'm not disappointed with the contents of your shorts."

"Eloquent as always."

She quirked an eyebrow at him this time. "I'm willing to bet that you won't be disappointed with the contents of _my_ shorts, either."

"You talk too much." Impatient, he sat up and squirmed out of his boxers. Then, in one practiced tug of her undergarment, the last pesky barrier was out of the way. He moved forward, settling into the spot he'd been in before, between her soft thighs. Only now it felt much more significant; the last shards of reason were gone. This whole thing felt like a dream, a wild encounter where he was himself but some version that he'd never met before. It came naturally with her – confidence, wit, and this overwhelming desire that, for once, was within reach.

Her face had changed. The mischief was gone. In its place was something else, an impassioned vulnerability. She wanted him, wanted this, but felt as uncertain as he did. They had both seen and done much, good and bad, joyous and painful. There were a thousand reasons they should stop now, and only one reason why they shouldn't. But wasn't this curious attraction enough to overrule the petty scraps of rationality? In the wake of war and ruin, wasn't one act of love that much more significant?

He kissed her more tenderly than he had before. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and he pressed forward into her warmth. His brain shut off. That was quite an accomplishment…

He moved with her, listening to her sighs. The world narrowed and became one room. One bed. One woman. Her sighs became heavy breaths, mingling with his. It felt…like drugs, like transcendence, like an existentialist finding his meaning.

She moaned, causing a hot spear to shoot through him. He pushed deeper inside her. She opened like a flower, her hips rising. There were no words for this. Perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

She was slick and warm and he gave himself over to it. It was so nice to cede control to someone else – to _something_ else. Instinct carried him, filling his nose with the smell of her arousal, his ears with the sound of her voice, of body against body, and everything else with the excruciating pleasure in his groin.

She came fast, or maybe she didn't; he had no concept of time. Not when her insides clenched like that, or when his name ripped from her lips in a fit of ecstatic vocalization. He wasn't far behind. His ears rang and his eyes went white as his body reached its pinnacle.

At first he wasn't conscious of how much weight he was putting on her. Then, as he slowly returned to himself, he raised up on his elbows. Severus Snape met Hermione Granger's brown eyes and couldn't look away.

* * *

Lilith was curled in a blanket, watching him. She had been very quiet since the questioning.

"Aren't you tired?" Remus asked. She shrugged. "I forget," he said with a small smile, "that teenagers don't sleep at night."

She tilted her head to the side. "How old are you?"

Remus chewed on some dried fruit that he'd nicked from breakfast earlier that morning. After a minute he answered, "Forty-two."

"Where were you born?"

"England. Newcastle."

"Were you born a werewolf?"

He shook his head. "No. I was bitten when I was seven."

"How did your family react?"

"My father died in the attack. My mother…she accepted it and did her best to raise me. She died when I was eighteen. She wasn't well and we had no money to spare. I think she held on long enough for me graduate from school. I'm glad she was able to see that before she died." He chewed his lip. It had been his mother's greatest desire that he got his education. That, at least, had gone right. "Other than that, I had no family."

The girl was frowning. "Most of them wanted to kill me. I heard them say it was the kindest thing they could do."

Remus sighed. He had heard that kind of thing before, too. What twisted logic people employed. He could understand if the change was permanent, but it was only one night a month. For the other twenty-seven days, werewolves were normal people.

"Lilith, it isn't easy. It takes a toll on your body. It takes a toll on your _life_. But so does everything. The trick is finding a way to be a person and not just a lycanthrope."

"No one lets us!" her fist thumped against the chair. "You're a hero and still all they can see is the wolf."

He shrugged. The girl was right. Certain people here, especially the dig manager Cyrus, were not comfortable with him. "I'm used to it, Lilith. If I let it get to me all the time I'd go crazy."

"You'd think after all these wars they would stop drawing lines between people," she huffed. Remus felt a pang of sympathy; youthful idealism had not yet been driven out of her. It had taken a long time to bleed out of him.

"There were werewolves that sided with the Dark Lord, and there will always be some who revel in attacking people, spreading lycanthropy and fear. It's just…" he trailed off.

Lilith smiled sadly. "The nature of the beast?"

He nodded, mirroring her smile. She had taken the words right out of his mouth.

* * *

Anatole was still moody two hours later. Nick had put their depressing conversation with Dawn out of his mind; he had always been able to shelve things for later consideration. He knew his friend would continue to think about it, but Nick saw no point in letting it ruin his day.

"You need something," Nick said as they walked up the beach.

"Yeah, I need to rewind three weeks and never have met Hermione," he sighed. "That would fix everything."

"I wonder if wizards and witches can time-travel," Nick responded thoughtfully.

"I don't know and I don't care. Besides, if they could don't you think they'd just go back in time and kill that Voldemort guy before he became powerful?"

"It's not that simple and you know it."

"I'm not a quantum physicist," Anatole said dismissively. "The details of the space-time continuum elude me."

"Lies," Nick chuckled. "I remember when we were twelve. You built a time machine for the science fair."

"God, don't remind me." As much as he hated to admit it, Nick was cheering him up.

"Oh, I will remind you. It was made of chicken wire and papier mache." They passed through the wards, now used to the mildly sinister tingle that played across their skin.

"And my dad put those sparklers all around it. It's a miracle I didn't burn down the school."

"No, I think Kouretas had that covered."

Anatole laughed out loud. He had completely forgotten that. Their childhood friend, Kouretas, had learned the hard way what happened when one left one's Bunsen burner lit and unattended.

"Oh man…thanks Nick, I needed that." He patted his friend on the back.

"Anytime, buddy. Hey, I think my sister is making baklava, you know it's better than the place you get it from. Why don't you…" Nick stopped and looked back, sensing that he had somehow lost Anatole. He was right. Anatole was gone.

Dread sank into him instantly. The street was too quiet and the night too dark. He was not usually one to be spooked by these things, but since he'd discovered that wizards and witches and werewolves were real, anything was possible. The shadows held a myriad of ill-defined terrors…

A moment later one of those shadows leapt at him. He tried to call out but whatever it was, it was too fast. In seconds he was crumpled on the pavement. His attacker stood over him, taking in the young face and the solid, well-shaped limbs that splayed awkwardly across the ground.

"What fortunate men you are, Anatole Vasoulas and Niko Kyriake," the man whispered, "to stumble upon this."

* * *

A sharp knock sounded at the door, snapping the mood like an overtaxed rubber band. It startled them both, and the slight movement caused a last pang of pleasure to careen through his groin.

"You have got…to be…kidding me," Severus said, still breathing hard.

Hermione sighed, half content and half resigned. "Better now than fifteen minutes ago."

"I suppose you're right." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "I'll see who it is."

He extracted himself from her and pulled on his pants. Whoever it was, they deserved his bare torso for interrupting. With a glance to make sure Hermione's modesty was secure, he opened the door. It was Draco Malfoy.

The shrewd blond opened his mouth to speak and then reconsidered. "Did I interrupt something?"

Severus ignored the question. "What do you want?"

"Two men are here and they say they saw my father today."

Snape's eyes widened and his irritation drained away. This was good news. At the same time, it was a dose of reality. The curious magic of the last half hour had officially departed. He was glad that Lucius was alive, but couldn't keep a note of reluctance out of his voice.

"We'll be right out."


	17. Chapter 17

Cyrus was fuming. "How many more muggles are we going to invite onto this site?" 

"We'll worry about that later," Draco Malfoy said, his voice sharp and commanding. "If this muggle has information about my father it's worth the risk."

"You say that now," Cyrus grumbled, "but when we have a thousand reporters and their helicopters bearing down on us…"

"It's not going to happen," Dawn spoke up, annoyed.

Cyrus gave up. Muttering to himself, he altered the wards with Essah. "All right," he said in a clipped voice, "you can pass."

The dark-skinned wizard was the first to move. He was not tall but not short, with a neat beard and a proud bearing. "Come, Cecil," he said, beckoning, "it's all right."

The muggle, a taller man with a blond comb-over and ruddy skin, stepped forward hesitantly. He jumped as the wards scanned him and several people had to stifle laughter behind their hands. The joke at his expense was short-lived; his wizard companion shot them a cold look and somehow they all felt chastened.

"What in the hell?" the muggle, Cecil, stated.

"Questions later, my friend," the wizard said. "My name is Mehmet. I am an excavator at Troy and incidentally, I also do security at the School of Divination."

"Troy?" Draco said. "As in…The Iliad and Achilles and Trojan horses?"

Hermione glanced at him. She wouldn't have expected Malfoy to be familiar with the writings of a muggle, even if Homer was an exceptional one. Maybe he, too, had done his research before he came to Greece.

"That's the one," Mehmet said with a brief smile. "This is Cecil, an associate of mine." Cecil raised a nervous hand in greeting. He still looked completely out of sorts, but he was handling it better than some might have.

"So you have information about my father?" Draco pressed.

Mehmet nodded. "Are you planning on interrogating us right here?" His question held equal parts amusement and challenge. He was calling them on their rudeness.

Hermione saw Draco's fists clench at his sides. He wanted no part in protocol. She could tell that he didn't like Mehmet. Draco never liked anyone who could stay calm in the face of things that sent him into shambles. She glanced at Severus. His face was blank but his eyes were rapidly sizing their visitors up.

"I'm sure we can get these men a drink," Dawn said diplomatically. "Come with me." The two men followed her down the sandy shore. Severus shook his head as Cecil nearly tripped, so distracted was he by the things he was seeing. Hermione squeezed his hand; he returned to her and offered a faint smile.

Draco had already stalked past him, as had Cyrus and Essah, the former still cursing under his breath about security breaches. They were alone.

Though reality had descended, her body was still tight and warm in all the places he'd been. Hermione had no time to process what had happened; Draco had literally knocked on the door less than five minutes after they'd reached their sweaty completion. She was staring into his eyes, dark and depthless and surprisingly vulnerable, feeling him throb inside her…

She bit her lip. She liked sex. Who didn't, when it was done right? But Hermione had never been the sort of person who needed it all the time. Once in a while her body reminded her that it had base instincts, thank you very much, and she would act on them if it was possible. Usually that was enough. Usually.

Right now, in spite of their visitors and whatever news they bore, she wanted to do it again. She had not had the time to look at him, touch him, find out what pleased him…and she didn't regret their haste, but she longed to have the time alone to do those things. Hermione didn't want to admit it, yet part of her knew what had driven that haste. With things the way they were, it was likely that they'd have very little time for this fledgling relationship. She knew that that was half the reason he'd given in to her advances – it was half the reason she'd made them.

She turned toward him. The fact that he hadn't moved meant that he, too, was lost in thought. She reached up and touched his face. He disguised a slight start and met her eyes.

Hermione wanted to say something. She wanted to speak words of comfort, of seduction, of anything…but her mind and her mouth would not cooperate. His eyes seemed to know this. It was she who had to disguise a start when his hands came up to her face and his lips descended upon hers.

His kiss was slow and deliberate. His lips plied hers, teasing, asking. He was a good kisser, that much she'd come to know. There was something different in this kiss, though; something heavier, something more meaningful. Something that made her knees unreliable.

His arms snuck around her, pulling her against his body. She could still feel his heartbeat, not yet calm from their previous lovemaking. A surge of arousal hit her and she parted her lips with a helpless little moan. My God…she would never have predicted that Severus Snape would be the man to turn her legs to jelly and her loins into a conflagration of want.

His tongue dipped between her lips, seeking its counterpart. His every move seemed calculated to undo her. Though she could tell that it was undoing him as well; his body was stirring against her and the tickle of his breath came faster.

He broke the kiss a moment later. She leaned against his chest, breathless. If she was not mistaken, that had been a promise. A promise that they would one day have the time to explore each other properly, but now was not that time.

She felt his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head. His hand was gently fisted in the curls at the back of her neck. Any question she might have had about this, about him, evaporated. Moments like this, where words and minds were flummoxed in the face of sheer rightness, were few and far between in life.

She was standing on a beach in Greece, curled in the arms of Severus Snape. A sliver of moonlight illuminated them and the stars were bright in the wake of the city's unresolved blackout. The ocean lapped at the shore, soft and insistent; it formed the sound of the white noise inside her brain.

He was man she had once known and was coming to know again by a different route. A man who had, in the past, frustrated her to no end. Now he was provoking a different kind of frustration in her. It went to show just how much things had changed. The world had taken much from her but now it seemed that in this enigmatic lover it was paying her back for her patient endurance.

She looked up at him. His eyes were far away. For a moment she wished that she had learned Legilimency. In his unguarded eyes she saw a hundred things; fear, pain, uncertainty, defiance, resolve. She realized how little she really knew about him. What sparked those things? What storms went on in his brain?

He registered that she was observing him and slipped back from whatever place he'd gone. Severus looked down at her. Hermione once again felt the urge to speak. However, she didn't trust what might tumble out. So she stared at him, not realizing that her mouth was hanging open.

He touched her cheek and said softly, "Use your words, my dear."

She wanted to hit him and embrace him at the same time. An absurd smile found its way onto her face. Hermione laughed, unsure why tears had sprung into her eyes. She sniffled once and swiped at her eyes.

"I just hope you can back up the claims of that kiss," she goaded.

He fought a smile. "Hermione, I would throw you down right now, but…"

But there were more important things at hand. She nodded. They had to resume normal life – that life where they were colleagues in the middle of a big pantheonic mess. Still, they would not grudge her holding his hand on the walk back to the camp…if he let her.

He did. He even lifted their hands to kiss the back of her palm at one point. But when they got closer his fingers untwined from hers and his whole demeanor changed. Severus Snape was ready for business.

She sighed internally. He was so used to being two different things at once. He had already exceeded her expectations, cracking easily and allowing himself to enter into an undefined relationship with a former student. Snape was changing even now. Still, it would be a long, long time before he was comfortable letting the rest of the world lay eyes on his affairs. She was going to have to try very hard not to be offended by that. It wasn't because he was ashamed of her…

Hermione took a cleansing breath and steeled herself. The romantic interlude was over.

* * *

Two figures stood on the sand, watching the odd pair in the distance. 

"I must hand it to you," the man said, stroking his chin. "You have really worked your magic on them."

The woman turned to him. He would never cease to be struck by her beauty; even he wasn't immune to the charms of Aphrodite. She smiled and shook her head.

"Ares, I had nothing to do with this."

His face registered his doubt. "You're lying."

"No. They found each other."

He couldn't help it; he was a cynic. "There's no way she would give a man like him the time of day, short of your intervention."

Aphrodite snorted at him. As undignified as it was, she could do it in a way that was attractive. "You only focus on looks, Ares, and that's your problem."

"You're lucky you look the way you do, or else I wouldn't put up with you," he grumbled. They both knew he wasn't serious. "But if it's not them you're toying with, then why are you coming down here?"

She frowned. "You know how sometimes a man searches so long and hard for the right person that when he finds them, he doesn't even know it? Or maybe he doesn't even realize he's looking?"

"No," he said sarcastically. She sometimes went on tangents like this and he had found that it was best to ignore them. He knew war. The workings of love didn't compute.

"All right. Then do you know how sometimes two people are perfect for each other, and everyone else can see it except them?"

"No. Love is not that complicated. Either you are or you aren't and if it passes you by it's your own damn fault!"

"You're an idiot," she responded. "Go talk to Athena about battleaxes or something."

* * *

When Anatole woke up his head was throbbing. It hurt so badly that he felt like he might be sick. He breathed unevenly, trying his best to exercise willpower over his roiling stomach. The pain made his eyes fuzzy, too, but he could make out Nick's still form next to him. 

"Nick," he whispered hoarsely. "Nick!"

Nick didn't move. The thought of him possibly being dead or very badly injured made its way into his brain. It overrode his control and he felt saliva filling his mouth. He was going to be sick.

He was a moment later, turning away from his friend. There wasn't much in his stomach but that didn't stop his body from trying its damnedest to flush it out. When the heaving subsided he shakily wiped his mouth.

"Sorry about that," a voice echoed sharply in the room, bombarding his ears. "Some people don't respond well to the tranquilizers."

Anatole tried to see his visitor – his captor – but the room was dark and his vision was still not cooperating. His stomach didn't feel any better, either. He felt like vomiting again.

"What did you do to him?" he managed, gesturing at Nick.

"Nothing. He'll wake up soon."

"Nothing?" Anatole demanded. He held up his hands. They were bound together tightly with a thick plastic fastening ring. "This isn't nothing!"

"It will be nothing if all goes to plan."

"What plan?" Anatole struggled to his knees. "We aren't going to be part of any plan!"

The man stepped forward suddenly and Anatole recoiled, instinctually recognizing aggression. That reaction saved him from the man's fist. The man was still, looking him straight in the face. Though the edges of his eyes were still blurred, Anatole could see him now. He was some interesting mix of ethnicities, his skin dark but freckled, with dark blue eyes that slanted slightly.

The stalemate lasted only a moment. Anatole had nowhere to go and the other man knew it. He lashed out again and this time he made contact. It was too painful to be his fist. As Anatole hit the ground he realized it was the butt of a gun. The warm creeping sensation on his temple told him that it had drawn blood.

The man cocked the gun at his face. "Any more questions or grand declarations, Mr. Vasoulas?"

Anatole considered kicking him or spitting on him. He was brave enough to do it. Still, this man looked much too comfortable with a gun in his hand and he knew that in situations like this they always took two people for a reason. One hostage was disposable. Anatole closed his eyes and shook his head.

_Live today, fight tomorrow_, he thought. _If we can…_

* * *

I'm so thirsty that my mouth hurts. Since Prometheus's visit I've been alone. I can't say how many hours have passed. He's playing psychological games with me. I doubt very much that he understands what sort of thing he's entering into. I am good at psychological games. I smile, ignoring the sharp protest my cracked lips give. 

My smile fades when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone is here. I can't turn to see who it is. I seek control and clutch it.

The intruder doesn't waste time. A form comes into view, shrouded in a silver-grey cloak. Delicate hands push the hood back. My eyes widen; she is beautiful. Her features bear a strong resemblance to someone else - Apollo. She is like all of him made feminine. Except for that regal arrogance; that is the same.

"Artemis?"

She smiles so briefly that I think I might have imagined it. "They are coming with Veritaserum."

Of course they are. I'm almost relieved. With the Veritaserum they'll realize that I don't know what they think I do. Although that would render me useless; that could end badly. I frown. Artemis reaches into her sleeve and pulls something out. It is a tiny sachet.

"If you eat this you will be able to resist its effects."

"Why do I need to?" I ask. "I don't know what they think I know!"

"Yes you do," she replies. "They want to know the location of your dig. The location of the school."

My face falls. Shit, I do know that. "What do they want from the school?" My eyes narrow. "You're keeping things from me."

She looks annoyed. "Are you going to eat it or not?"

I sigh. I won't get any answers from her. This does let me know, however, that there is something hugely important in that school. If these people have designs on it, it puts every person there in danger.

"Fine. Yes."

She hurriedly opens the sachet. Inside it is a paper thin slice of something the color of honey. It is only slightly bigger than her thumbnail. She places it on the pad of her pointer finger and starts to bring it toward my mouth. It feels strange to be fed like this, but my odd discomfort is banished when it touches my tongue.

It's the sweetest thing I've ever tasted. Sweeter than Dawn's – no, I won't go there. Not now. My mouth is overwhelmed. It feels the way it does when you eat something extremely sour, only there is nothing sour about this. It lasts only a few seconds. The heady aftertaste lingers and I blink away mysterious, reflexive tears.

"What was that?" I manage. My head is spinning.

"Ambrosia."

I scrabble for coherent thoughts. I remember some mythology. Enough to know that ambrosia was the food of the gods and that if mortals were exposed to it, it made them immortal. That was the blessing and the curse of Achilles; his mother had dipped him in ambrosia, making him impervious to death everywhere except the ankle she held him by. Slytherins appreciate that kind of irony.

"Does that mean…?" I ask, dazed. I am no Voldemort. I don't want to be immortal. I don't trust myself not to stray back into madness in the grip of forever. And as horrifically sentimental as it is, I also don't want to watch the few people I care about grow old and die, leaving me with no one.

"No," she says slowly. Her flawless face is thoughtful. "It will make you immune to any magic for a time."

I nod, more relieved than I can express. She smiles at me in earnest this time. I think that somehow I've gained her favor. Then footsteps begin to echo outside the dingy room, moving closer with each passing second. She reaffixes her hood and makes to leave.

"Are you playing this game with the others?" I ask, flexing my hands against my bonds. No luck; they aren't magical.

The look in her eyes tells me that she knows exactly what I'm getting at. However, all she says is, "I'm a hunter, Lucius. I don't play games."

* * *

After his initial resistance, Mehmet had gotten right down to business. He, Cecil, Draco, Dawn, Cyrus, Hermione, and Severus sat intently around one of the long meal tables in heated discussion. 

"These people were definitely after him. They didn't take anyone else. And they made a point of asking Cecil where Malfoy had come from or was trying to go to. It has something to do with this site," Mehmet concluded.

"And now they know where it is," Cyrus sighed, rubbing his temples.

Mehmet was a shrewd man; Severus suspected that if he was ever sorted he'd end up in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. He confirmed this a moment later when he asked, "What do you have here that they want?"

Everyone was silent. Only he and Cyrus knew the answer to that.

"It's just a school," Dawn spoke up. "We haven't found anything of note, except maybe a werewolf preserved in stasis for two thousand years."

"And an ancient pensieve," Hermione added.

"A werewolf from the time of the Greeks?" Mehmet looked floored. "It is alive?"

"Yes," Dawn answered. "She is alive."

Mehmet shook his head. "While that is amazing, I can't imagine how it would relate."

Severus felt Cyrus's eyes on him. He met them and nodded briefly. It was time to impart the secret upon a few more people. "We fear that she is exactly what they want," he spoke up softly. All eyes turned to him, Hermione's quickest of all.

"What do you mean?" Mehmet asked sharply.

"Some of us have had a look into that ancient pensieve Hermione mentioned. What we've seen inside is a war. A war that began because of a potion." Several people opened their mouths to speak at once. They were silenced with a jerk of his hand. "The original purpose of the potion was to cure lycanthropy. But the creator went too far. He…he accidentally created a potion that could strip all magic from the user."

"That's possible?" Draco asked, aghast.

"Apparently," Snape nodded gravely. "Now, this man happened to be a surrogate father to our werewolf. He was trying to cure lycanthropy because of her. Even though it would take away all her magic, he wanted her to decide whether to take it or not."

"The problem was," Cyrus stated, "that other people wanted this potion for very different reasons."

"Hence the war," Mehmet nodded.

"The point is, he told her the formulation of the potion before he died. Every other memory or record of it was erased. That werewolf is the only one who knows how to make the potion."

"How could they know about this if it was two thousand years ago?" Cecil asked. He had been lost for most of the conversation but was starting to get over his initial disbelief.

"No idea," Severus shrugged.

"But both muggles and wizards are involved?" Dawn asked, frowning.

"Yes. The force that attacked the School of Divination was composed of both."

"Why would they involve muggles?"

"That's simple," Cecil spoke up. "If I understand you correctly, muggles are people like me. People without magic." They all nodded. "Then it's obvious. You people can do magic. _Magic_. It seems like nothing to you, but for us…it's terrifying. You can do whatever you want to us if you feel the urge, and we'd be powerless to stop you. You're a threat."

"They can't realistically think that the wizards they are working with don't know that," Severus stated. "And we have no designs on muggle sovereignty."

Draco shot to his feet and paced. "They're both using the other. The muggles are trying to get the formula from the wizards so they can take our magic away." He glanced at Cecil. "Neutralize the threat, as you say. And the wizards are trying to use the muggles to make the potion into a weapon. That way they can take away the magic of anyone who stands up to them. They're trying to take over the world with muggles to do the dirty work."

Hermione exhaled through pursed lips. It sounded so awful when he said it like that. "That can't be true."

"I think he's right," Severus announced.

"As do I," Mehmet seconded. "It makes sense."

Draco cracked his knuckles, still nervously prowling across the sand. "If Cecil already told them about Preveza, then what do they need my father for?"

"Persuasion, of course," Mehmet replied. "Someone to exchange for the girl."

Draco sat back down and abruptly put his forehead against the table. Hermione felt like doing the same thing.

"So, sooner or later," Cyrus said, "we will have some unpleasant muggles and wizards knocking on our wards."

Dawn frowned. "We're fenced in. Either way, we lose."

"That's it," Hermione declared, thumping her palm on the table. "We have to erase Lilith's memory of the potion."

"No!" Snape exclaimed a little too quickly.

"She's right, Snape. It's too risky. That formula has already started one war," Cyrus disagreed.

"No," he repeated, shaking his head. "That formulation is the best chance we have of ever curing lycanthropy."

"There's no guarantee that it's still brewable," Hermione pointed out. "In two thousand years ingredients may have changed names or gone extinct. This might all be for nothing!" She knew he was fighting his intellectual curiosity; truth be told, she was fighting it, too. She was also sure that this was what he had meant when he said he had to tell her something. Boy was she glad they'd put it off…

"You can erase her memory," the potions master said sternly, "but only after I have heard that formula."

"That doesn't solve the problem. It only puts you in danger instead of her!"

"And they'll still want to take her. They'll still be holding my father hostage," Draco added.

Hermione bit her tongue. She wanted to remind Severus of his own words – that some things were better left undiscovered. Of course, he'd said that before he came to know that the school's great secret was a potion. If he had known it was a potion all his rhetoric about discipline and what was better would have gone out the window. Severus Snape was intrigued by the premise of such a potion existing, and if she knew him at all, he wanted to try to brew it. Improve it. Make it a true cure. And if she knew him, there would be no talking him out of it.

"I think we need Remus and Lilith out here," Dawn said. "Now."

No one disagreed.

* * *

They feel the need to manhandle me before administering the Veritaserum. For a wizard this Prometheus is a little too fond of fists. I'll take them, though. Fists are infinitely better than the Cruciatus. 

If what Artemis said is true, the Cruciatus shouldn't do a thing to me. I won't let them know that. I can act like I'm being put through the worst pain of my life quite easily; I've experienced it before and it isn't hard go back there.

A sharp, vicious peel of pain startles me out of my planning. They've knocked the wind out of me and my mind descends into a spiral of panic. After a minute I am capable of drawing breath. Every move hurts; they may have broken a rib or two.

I catch a glimpse of Prometheus through the stocky figures of his thugs. He is watching me closely. Maybe he is surprised that I'm not putting up a fight – not that I can do much but glare at them. More likely he is wondering at my ability to take punishment. It is not something you want to have, but once you do you are glad of it.

One of them grabs me by the hair and tilts my head back. Prometheus dumps the potion down my throat. I manage to spit half of it out, but the rest is going down whether I like it or not. Coughing, I fix them with my best glare. I know the Veritaserum won't do a thing and I am going to enjoy acting my fine little arse off.

Slowly the men release me. Prometheus paces. Then, apparently deciding that enough time has gone by for the potion to go into effect, he stops in front of me.

"Where is the dig site, Malfoy?"

I know how to play this. I definitely haven't lost my touch for acting. I deserve one of those – what do the muggles call them? Ottos? Oscars? Whatever. I scrunch up my face as if I am trying very hard to resist. My body is already worked up from absorbing the most recent round of physical abuse, so the sweat and the pallor work in my favor.

"Greece," I grind out. Veritaserum has its perks, but if one asks vague questions, they get vague answers. I'm rewarded with a very unforgiving fist to the face. I can't control an exclamation of pain; he's hit me in a place that is already injured. My head swims with a wicked, throbbing agony that I feel to the roots of my teeth.

"You're clever, Malfoy, but it's not doing you any favors," he scowls. "Now, tell me the name of the city that the dig site is located in."

I hesitate a second, to see if 'Preveza' wants to come to my lips. No. I have no helpless compulsion to be truthful. I almost want to laugh. I have never been so glad to lie in my life, and that's saying a lot.

So where to send them? What lovely destination to delay their dubious purposes? It has to be in Greece. I don't know many places off the top of my head and I can't say Athens. There are too many people in Athens that Prometheus would be only too happy to kill if they stood in his way. Where, then? I suppress a smirk as it comes to me. It is time for a little payback.

"Delphi," I relent. "It's at Delphi."

* * *

When the sun came up none of the people at the picnic table had slept, excepting Lupin and Lilith, who had managed an hour before Snape woke them. The hours of arguing and plotting had been worth it, though. They had come up with a rough sort of plan. 

Lilith had agreed to tell the formulation to Severus. They had all agreed upon erasing Lilith's memory of the formulation once this was done. Even after two thousand years she was still unsure if she wanted to take it; Remus had touted the effectiveness of Wolfsbane for the meantime. It made sense. Though Lilith was a witch, she had never properly learned how to defend herself and was, as such, quite vulnerable. She knew this as well as anybody.

Hermione was to assist Severus in researching if the potion could actually be made. It was dangerous and stupid and scary to even think about. Part of her hoped that it was a dead end. When she looked at Remus or Lilith, though, her conscience told her that they were worth the risk. This chance might never come again.

They had met a barrier when Lucius came up. How could they get Lucius back without giving up Lilith? Everyone was on the same page; neither was an acceptable sacrifice. Severus had pointed out that this was Lucius Malfoy they were talking about; he was a clever bastard and none of them should underestimate his ability to get himself out of trouble without any of their help. That had made them feel better for a moment, at least until Draco sullenly remarked,

"Even clever bastards get killed sometimes."

None of them could argue that.

Then Remus Lupin spoke up. "If it comes down to an exchange, you can tell them her memory has been erased and I'm the only one that knows the formula. I'll go instead of her." It had earned him several incredulous looks, most notably from Draco and Severus. "I'm serious," he went on. "I know enough about potions to delay them. I can give them one of your Wolfsbane alterations, Severus. They won't know any better."

"That still puts you in danger," Hermione said.

"Yes, but I can protect myself. And," he said, drumming his fingers on the table, "I have a built-in escape route."

"What's that?" Snape demanded.

"This last moon was the end of my Wolfsbane. I haven't taken the next dose yet. If I go with them, I'll be sure not to take it. When the moon comes in a few weeks…" he trailed off.

The stunned silence was broken by Draco. "You'd do that for my father?"

"No," Lupin replied. His eyes traveled to where Lilith slept, draped across the bench of the next picnic table. "I'd do it for her."

* * *

The day was viciously hot. Hermione had heard about this kind of heat in her readings. Temperatures upwards of 40 Celsius weren't uncommon in summer. That was half the reason the Greeks were so fond of whitewashing; the white paint reflected the sun's rays and kept the temperature within down. 

She tried to sleep. Severus had lain down next to her for a time. He wasn't fooling anyone, though; he didn't sleep a wink. She couldn't either. It was too hot and there was too much on her mind. Eventually he gave up and began to work on the potion in the dragon-shaped vessel.

Lilith was going to tell him the formula when she woke. The idea was for them all to recover from the long night of planning. No one thought it was odd that they were missing because no one had ventured outside; it was much too dangerous to work in this heat. Most everyone was hunkered down in their cabins doing their best to maintain cooling charms.

Severus wasn't saying much and she was surprisingly comfortable with that. The sound of his even breathing and the scrape of his tools were pleasant company. Without them it was too quiet; the heat seemed to have driven the spirit out of everything from the ocean to the sea birds that usually squawked and circled above.

Hermione sighed. Even lying perfectly still she was sweating. She turned her glance to Severus. He was as undressed as she'd ever seen him, aside from last night. He was wearing a white cotton undershirt and thin linen pants that were rolled up to his knees. His feet were bare. He had odd feet; she hadn't noticed before. They were large but narrow, with long, dextrous toes and a sprinkling of hair on top of them. As he worked he flexed and unflexed the toes on his left foot unconsciously. She wondered if he did that while brewing potions, too.

He turned to her. He always knew when he was being watched.

"You know," he said, taking in her flushed skin and the light sheen of sweat on her forehead, "you can strip down if it helps you sleep."

"Oh really?" she said playfully, rolling over onto her stomach. Her leg seemed to rise up of its own volition. "You give me permission?"

A smile ghosted across his face and he returned to his work. He said no more. In the end, Hermione did as he suggested and tossed her shorts and tank top aside. Then, nestling in the cool cotton sheets, she was able to fall asleep.

* * *

Night fell and it was cooler but by no means was it cool. Severus was sweating as the girl recited to him. Lilith was nervous but sure. 

"Two…two teaspoons of saffron…stir clockwise eight times…it should turn orange."

He wrote it quickly but not so quickly that he wouldn't be able to read it later. So far this was entirely doable. Every ingredient was something he knew of and no step was beyond what he could do. Many of the core ingredients of Wolfsbane were there but with a few notable differences. He nodded, indicating that she should go on.

"A cup of diced glistrithra. Let it sit on top for ten minutes, then stir once."

Hm. That threw a wrench in the gears. He had no idea what glistrithra was.

"One leaf of a purple Evanescing Tuberose."

Damn it. He had never heard of that, either. Then again, he was no herbologist…

They both jumped badly when Cyrus tore the door open. Severus turned, ready to berate him for snapping the girl's concentration, but the look on Cyrus's face killed his rebuke.

"We have visitors," the head excavator said gravely. "Speed things up in here."

"Is Lucius with them?" Severus asked.

"We don't know. We've only just spotted them."

He took a breath. "Okay. Lilith, how much more?"

"Ten minutes," she whispered.

"And another five for the memory alteration. Keep them busy."

Cyrus nodded and disappeared.

* * *

Fog was beginning to roll off the ocean. It was like a cloud army, billowing up from the tranquil waves and slowly encroaching upon the land. Each time one looked back it had advanced further, claiming more territory from the witches and wizards who held it. 

Dawn stood in an odd but strong line with Draco, Cyrus, and Mehmet. Draco was to her left, his arms crossed and his wand ready. In spite of the harsh words he'd delivered upon arrival she found that she liked him. He had inherited all the best parts of Lucius; the sharp mind, the good looks, and that intangible sense of being untouchable. The war had made him strong. She saw in him the same thing she'd seen in Hermione; steely resolve and a promise that if you got in the way, you would not come out on the better end of the fight.

Cyrus, for all his bluster, was a welcome companion. And Mehmet gave off the aura of a man who had seen and done much, a man that they were all glad was on their side.

The wards crackled suddenly. In the fog they could make out the shape of a man. A single man with something in his hands, reaching out to prod the wards. The crackle sounded again and the wards gave off a green spark of protest. The brief light was eerie in the mist, though they were glad of it; they could barely see one another, side by side, so that meant the invaders couldn't see them at all.

"What is that in his hands?" Draco whispered. Dawn had been trying to figure that out also. It was much too big to be a wand.

"It's a gun," Mehmet returned.

"A muggle weapon?"

"Yes. It won't work against the wards," Cyrus said.

"Why the muggles?" Draco asked. "They have no chance of breaking through."

"We need to scout them," Mehmet murmured. "See how many there are and who is with them."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"Brooms. In the fog we can move right above them. They won't notice."

"That's dangerous," Dawn stated.

"Yes, but it needs to be done."

She looked at Cyrus. He hadn't volunteered for this, but he nodded his assent and said, "All right. The brooms are in the supply shed."

* * *

Lilith was finished. She looked exhausted and he felt it. There had been three more ingredients he was unsure of. That made a total of five in a potion utilizing roughly sixty ingredients. They weren't great odds but they weren't terrible, either. There was hope. 

He cast a few quick preserving spells on the parchment. It was impervious to water, fire, and insult by hand or scissor, at least for now. Once he memorized it he fully intended to burn the scrap.

He stood and opened the door. Lupin and Hermione were waiting outside. He nodded and they came in wordlessly. Remus went to Lilith. Hermione went to Severus.

Her eyes scanned the parchment quickly. He could tell that she was cataloguing the unfamiliar, as he had. When she was finished her eyes flickered to him and then to Lilith.

"It's time, Lilith," Severus said gently.

The girl nodded. She put on a brave face, but as his wand touched her forehead, her hand reached out and found Remus Lupin's. He squeezed her hand and sighed. With a nod, he signaled for Severus to go ahead.

* * *

Mehmet was standing behind the bold muggle with the gun. The fog was thick enough to obscure him and he was fast enough to repel an attack if one came. The man's team was further off, across the empty highway. Mehmet didn't know what they were waiting for. 

He jumped as a sharp sound cut through the silence, odd and muffled in the fog. Slowly, though, his tension leaked out of him. It was a cell phone. The man reached into his pocket and removed the offending device. He flipped it open, lifting it to his ear.

"Nugent."

Mehmet fought the temptation to cast a charm to enable him to hear the conversation. But as it turned out, he didn't need to. The volume on the phone and the speaker on the other side were both loud enough to carry to where he stood, breathless.

"Nugent, it's Warrick. I've got a location for you."

Nugent chuckled. "I thought you said this Malfoy fellow would take a while to break."

"Well, we have very persuasive methods. He talked."

"All right. When and where are we moving?"

"Delphi. Three days."

There was a pause. "I'll prepare my men." He closed the phone. Its light cast a small pool of luminescence in the fog.

Mehmet kicked up on the broom. He had heard enough.

* * *

He and Cyrus began to talk at the same time. 

"It's all muggles--"

"They're backstabbing--"

They both stopped.

"You first," Dawn said, pointing at Mehmet. He nodded.

"The muggles are acting independently of the wizards. Malfoy isn't with them."

"What do you mean?" Draco demanded.

"The wizards have your father. I overheard a phone conversation. They said Malfoy told them the site was in Delphi. So either your father has found a way to lie to them, or the wizards are trying to send the muggles on a wild goose chase."

"So the muggles are here on their own? They didn't tell the wizards the location?"

Mehmet shook his head.

"It's true," Cyrus added. "It's all muggles out there. Muggles with guns."

"They're crazy. What can they do without the wizards?" Draco asked.

"A lot, I'm afraid. They have two muggle hostages." All eyes turned to Cyrus.

"Two…muggle…" Dawn trailed off. "Oh no."

"What?" Draco said.

Dawn felt like the breath had been pulled out of her. A look at Cyrus proved it. Draco didn't get it, not yet. She ran an agitated hand through her hair and met his grey eyes.

"It's Anatole and Nick."

* * *

Author's Note: That's two chapters in less than two weeks, people. Hah. I think that deserves some reviews. I'm going to try to write as much as I can before I return to grad school on the 22nd cause I'm feeling inspired. And it has absolutely nothing to do with Lucius Malfoy in leather at the end of the OoTP movie. Nothing. cough Er, right. 


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